Here, There Be Drackens
by DuncanIdaho2014
Summary: Inspired by StarLight Massacre. Harry, fed up with the Wizarding World, abandons it after defeating Voldemort... until a creature inheritance drags him back in! He just can't catch a break, can he? CreatureFic, Bi harem, MPreg, Slash of both flavors. Approach with caution.
1. Setting the Stage

**I actually had this tucked away on AFF since, at least to me, it was even more taboo than the FSOG fic. But, since I'm emerging from hyperbolic sleep, I might as well come clean with this too. Besides, no such thing as bad press, right? You can find me under Donalgraeme, the name of a beloved if obscure science fiction character.**

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 **First off, I very much love and respect Starlight Massacre. I am NOT trying to plagiarize and rip-off a gimmick or anything here. I was genuinely inspired by their ideas and this story is the result. I will try to pay respect and remain true to all facts I borrow from TROTD, as that is the 'canon' this fic is based on. That being said, this** _ **is**_ **a fic, so forgive me if I take a little creative license.**

 **Second, this is a BI story. Harry's harem will include a female Dominant, and there will be hetero and pure homo scenes for side characters. If that makes you, the reader, uncomfortable, the obvious solution is to just not read.**

 **Third, while the aforementioned Starlight is content to make theirs mostly a smut/family story, I'm going to add a little more action to mine. Hopefully that's a good thing and keeps you all interested and adds another layer to the fiction sundae, but let me go if it's a hat on top of a hat or seems shoehorned in or something.**

 **Finally, important point. If Harry mated to Blaise on Halloween and his first heat started December 14, then his heat cycle is actually 45 days, not two months. A little oversight that can be ignored considering the magnificence of the rest of my source material, but one I'm going to play havoc with to keep with my own time-table for events. It's actually key to a twist I think everyone will appreciate. Assuming I get that far.**

 **On to the fic, then.**

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The sun rose pale and thin on July 31st, the English summer deciding the most it would concede to the stereotypical image of its season that day would be the lack of rain. Otherwise, it was as grey and gloomy and cool as late fall. The weak rays shone down on Big Ben and St. Paul's with a familiar reverence and the more recent skyscrapers with glittery enthusiasm. They also wormed their way through the curtains of an open window at 12 Grimmauld Place, a townhouse that no one else on the London street seemed to know existed. They peeked through into what appeared to be the bedroom of what was either a reasonably messy adult or oddly neat teenager. As if by providence, the little bits of light landed on the lightning-shaped scar of the room's sleeping occupant. For one brief moment, nature shined a literal spotlight on the mark that cursed the young man to be constantly hounded by its metaphorical cousin.

Little did he know that later that very morning, certain changes would occur that would net him exponentially more attention of an even more disconcerting variety.

It was a shame really. He'd endured more than his fair share the past few weeks.

Precisely 43 days prior, Harry James Potter had been tricked into going to the Hall of Prophecy within the British Ministry of Magic, after receiving a false vision through his odd mental link with his parents' murderer that his beloved godfather was being tortured there. Luckily for Harry's survival, unluckily in the boy's opinion and those of several adults, he'd dragged five of his friends along with him. After retrieving the prophecy regarding himself and Voldemort from its bespelled perch, the six students had been confronted by a gaggle of the Dark Lord's lackeys. Through a combination of luck, independent study, and the arrogance of the entitled, they managed to survive until the grown-ups arrived. The tide quickly turned in their favor, until, in a moment of reckless abandon, Sirius Black managed to get himself murdered in front of the eyes of his godson, whose resume of suffering and loss already made him a front-runner in the Interdimensional Tragic Hero Quarterfinals.

Harry took off in pursuit of Sirius' killer, his own cousin Bellatrix Lestrange. When offered the level to sink to her level, however, something held him back. He then suddenly found himself caught in the crossfire in a duel between Voldemort, aka Grindelwald 2.0, and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian George Jacob Gingleheimer Schmidt Dumbledore, who'd been playing hooky from his role as Headmaster of Hogwarts for the past few months due to the small issue of him being on the most wanted list.

Harry got a small glimpse of the difference between a schoolyard squabble and the kind of battle they write songs about, before Voldemort made what he probably thought was a clever maneuver, but would ultimately result in his utter destruction. The creature that was less than a man tried to take possession of Harry, in theory forcing Dumbledore to either kill the boy that had bested him time and again, or allowing the snake to off the only wizard he worried was stronger than him.

But it was as Voldemort dived more deeply into Harry's mind than he ever had before, tried to seize control of his very soul, that he learned what Trelawney foretold as 'power the Dark Lord knows not'.

Love.

It sounds trite, sophomoric, like something out of a kiddy novel, but it was the harsh truth. Voldemort had been born to a father that hadn't wanted him and a mother too weak to keep him. He'd been raised by tired people in a depressing place surrounded by children made bitter and callous by a world that seemed determined to put them down. He'd learned that the only thing you could count on in this world was yourself, and everyone else was either a resource, a pawn, or an obstacle. Love was something he'd never had, and by the time he could understand it he'd been starved for so long he convinced himself he didn't need it. He settled for the next best thing, hatred. He had immersed himself in it, sunk so deep that all the world would have to burn to satisfy him.

And then he brought his very essence in contact with Harry. A boy who'd also been denied love. Who had seen other people enjoy happiness, closeness, trust, bonds, and wonder 'why can't that be me?' But whereas Voldemort had written it off as a weakness, Harry became more determined than ever to make what relationships he did have count. He was full to bursting to love, and it was spread as thickly as it was wide. He forged a bond as strong as brotherhood with the first boy to talk to him on a train, and adopted himself into the family when he wasn't immediately rejected. He risked his life for a girl he barely liked and supported her as much he could with his debilitating maleness and kinesthetic learning style as opposed to her book osmosis. He bonded with Neville over being awkward, Dean over Muggle things, his Quidditch team was like a group of cousins, the DA somewhere between friends and children, the little firsties he met in the halls like little siblings to nurture and protect, Remus and Sirius uncles he never got to see but treasured all the more for the brief encounters.

For Voldemort, it was like a snowman sticking his hand in boiling water. It repelled him, made his whole being ache, it was everything he was _not_. How could a man who saw people as objects to use understand the hollow agony of losing a relative? A man who thought only of his own desires what it was to put others' needs before yours? One who's greatest fear was death someone willing to die in place of another? Darkness, the light?

The thing that was once Tom Marvolo Riddle recoiled, trying to abandon his plan. Anything that hurt that much just wasn't worth it. But you can't force your spirit into someone's body without them feeling it. Harry sensed fear and pain through the screaming piercing burning _wrong_ coming from his scar. And if there's one thing you can always count on a Seeker to do, it's to not be afraid to take the dive.

Harry shoved everything he was through the link. He thought of how much he cared for Ron, no matter how stupid or stubborn they both might get at times. He thought of Hermione's bossiness and how it was because she cared, and how proud she was when it all paid off. How it felt to caress Hedwig's feathers in the summer and share the solidarity of being the only magical creatures in a sea of mundane. Hagrid's bumbling and terrible cooking, the twinkle in Dumbledore's eye, the way McGonagall's thin mouth would quirk up at the corner when she thought no one was looking. Getting Fred and George to laugh instead of the other way around, verbal sparring with Ginny, Mrs. Weasley's hugs and Christmas treats, Mr. Weasley lighting up at Muggle trivia. The stumbling longing for Cho, the peck and giggle from Luna to 'keep away the Nargles', the way his cheeks had burned and his stomach had dropped when he'd first heard Cedric mention the Prefect's Bath. Passion. Trust. Intimacy. Care and devotion without strings, because you _knew_ you could count on the other to do the same. Sometimes handed out too quickly or in the wrong way, but always striving to come out, because it's what makes us human.

You know.

Love.

Harry could never actually remember what happened next. It came back to him in pieces, but he never got a clear recollection of the events that were described to him over and over until he was tempted to learn some kind of Deafening Hex and cast it on himself. For him, the only thing that really stood out was the _pain_. That seemed like too small a word for what he experienced. In comparison, Crucio was a paper cut. Imagine getting thrown into a wood chipper, remaining aware of every single shred, having them dunked in pure alcohol, set on fire, the ashes scattered until you feel utterly lost and without form. Then just as you think you're going to go mad from the numbness and the fear, every atom gets crushed into a cube the size of a pea with the force of a pneumatic press, before getting stretched back into the approximate shape you started out with, still feeling adrift and without the anchor of being. Then, just as you start to panic, you're electrocuted back to life, extremely violently, as in, violent contortions that break all your bones, which you can just feel over the stabbing full-body pins-and-needles. And _then_ , before you can puke your intestines out or cry out in joy that you aren't _not_ anymore, the whole thing starts all over again.

That's what Harry felt as he rode shotgun to every shard of Voldemort's soul self-destructing as it came into contact with it anathema, pure love. First the main one that had regained corporeal form, and then every Horcrux he created as Harry's love, guided by the instinctual push he'd last consciously given, chased down the thin bonds connecting the body to the parts, for how could they anchor him if they weren't connected to the ship in some way? It finally ended with the shard that had resided in Harry's own skull, the true source of the mental bond and scar.

Harry had a vague memory of collapsing into Dumbledore's arms after the torment finally ended, but really, he didn't become aware again until he woke up in the Hospital Wing three days later. The whole thing was like a bad dream to him. In fact, he'd kind of been hoping that was what happened, that he'd hit his head during his History of Magic O.W.L. and the whole thing had been a potion-induced nightmare.

Whatever everyone else saw (apparently, not only had the Order and Harry's volunteers entered the Atrium near the end of the duel, but so had Minister Fudge, half the Auror Corps, and no less than five photographers from the Daily Prophet) was a bit less dramatic than dying and resurrecting 7 times. But in some ways, it was even worse. Harry screamed out with two voices. Then Voldemort appears at his feet and Harry grabs his skull. They scream at each other, foreheads touching, until Voldemort seems to dissolve into ashes. Harry looks up, scar bleeding like a faucet, eyes glowing bright enough to see in the dark. "It's done." he says in an empty voice. He's not even holding his wand. And then Dumbledore sweeps him up and Disapparates, leaving pandemonium in his wake.

Harry had all this explained to him by a very contrite Dumbledore in his hospital bed, who made of point of making eye contact. The old man seemed to finally realize that keeping secrets from Harry about his own life would just result in him acting on what little he had anyway, often with disastrous results. Plus, listening to everything that Harry had learned from his brief time sharing Voldemort's mind, it seemed safe to say that any innocence the young Gryffindor had was now dead and gone. Obscene rituals to gain power. Revels with the Death Eaters. Dealings with creatures so dark they didn't have a name. All of it written indelibly onto Harry's brain, for he couldn't annihilate Voldemort with light without absorbing some darkness as well.

Harry was feeling an odd detached calm, which Dumbledore recognized as the calm before the storm of the temper that Lily Evans had used to cow the rebellious 15-year old Marauders. Harry asked what the big deal was about the Prophecy that had started this whole mess. Dumbledore had explained the full circumstances, leaving out no detail. It was a rather odd experience for the supercentenarian. Quite liberating, actually. Maybe he should be more honest.

Harry had stared at him with dull, unblinking eyes when he finished. After two minutes, Albus started to wonder if he should go fetch Poppy, before the boy finally roused himself. "Let me get this straight. You're telling me that my parents DIED on the _partial_ word of a sherry-pot, incense-snorting, insult-to-clichéd-fortunetellers-everywhere great-granddaughter of a seer, relayed by a greasy-haired, bitter, still-hung-up-on-a-schoolyard-grudge-almost-twenty-years-after-the-fact, poor-biased-excuse-of-a-teacher, _alleged_ ex-Death Eater, whom was still loyal at the time I might add? Not only that, but because both you and Mr. "Ooh, my filthy muggle name makes a pompous French anagram" _believed_ it?"

Dumbledore gulped. Put that way, it _did_ seem rather silly… and pathetic… and dear god, could those eyes shoot _Avada Kedavra_ if he got mad enough? "Harry, my dear boy, you must understand, there is a long, detailed history of prophecy, you saw the size of the hall yourself, and Sybil exhibited all the signs of a genuine trance…"

"Yes. Or. No."

Where was Fawkes when you needed him? "Yes, Harry. They died bravely, loving you, but that's why they died."

Harry nodded. "I see. Well, that does it. I'm quitting."

Dumbledore frowned. That wasn't the explosion he was expecting. "What do you mean, Harry?"

"I'm quitting the wizarding world."

Dumbledore was never more afraid that he was having a heart attack. If it weren't for the timely intervention of the Calming Draught-infused sherbet lemons he kept on his person at all times, he might have met his end right there. As it was, he was sure that it wasn't helping his caring image that his reaction to that dragon was to eat some candy. Might help the mysterious one, though.

"I beg your pardon, Harry. What do you mean, you're 'quitting'?"

Harry gave a grin that set off every alarm bell Dumbledore had. "You didn't see Ron leaving as you came in, did you? Well, he gave me this whole diatribe about how much of a freak I was, how I was keeping secrets from them all, how I must have been secretly studying dark magic the whole time to actually beat Voldemort, even though everyone seemed to just expect me to be able to even though he's fifty-something and a self-trained killer and I'm just a school student. How Dumbledore's Army was actually me setting up my own Death Eaters. How I was now a murderer and how Fudge should chuck me in Azkaban now before I go bonkers and start killing off purebloods and elect Dobby Minister for Magic. That I was evil and would never be loved and should find a hole to die alone in. There were a few comments about my mother and reproductive organs too, but I chose to ignore those because I still respect Mrs. Weasley, and I don't think she'd forgive me if I castrate her youngest son."

Dumbledore was appalled. "He told you all that, in your condition? After what you've been through?" The old Headmaster felt his eyes tighten. He'd been very lenient on discipline recently, not wanting to drive any Slytherins that could be salvaged from their upbringings towards the Death Eaters and, honestly, trying to preserve some of the innocence of childhood before it was ripped away by another war. But as Harry had taken care of that, however traumatically, it was time to put his foot down.

But Harry was waving his hand. "Don't bother. It's my own fault for sticking around him this long. He's shown his true colors multiple times. He's always been more of a 'fair weather friend', as they say, but as the same time he resented and had that damn inferiority complex about my stupid 'fame'. Plus, he's as bad as the Dursleys, in his own way. He rejects anything that doesn't fit in his own little box. I'm better off without him. Really." Then Harry sighed. "Just hope he doesn't take Hermione with him. She's fancied him forever, God knows why."

Dumbledore sighed. "Harry, I can see how Mr. Weasley's behavior could be very hard for you, but I still don't see why you feel you have to, uh, quit."

Harry's eyes settled on Dumbledore like two laser cannons eager to go off and vaporize all in their path. "Are you kidding me? Everyone in this world either wants to kill me, hates me over some stupid lie in the paper, or is obsessed with me because I managed to survive a terrorist attempting to kill me. I've come close to dying at least once each year, the whole government is so rotten that known terrorists not only get off scot free, they get to vote in the equivalent of the House of Lords, and the whole society seems frozen in the Muggle Dark Ages in regards to rights for anyone or anything that isn't a Pureblood male wizard. I looked it up, Hermione can't even vote unless she gets a sponsor since she's Muggleborn. Even if she were Pure as Malfoy, she'd only get to vote if she were married, and even then only in the stead of her husband. She didn't believe me until she cleared out the whole law section of the library. She was taking points for walking loudly for a week, she was so mad. And don't get me started on creatures. They're freaking sentient, they have feelings, they're as much people as you or me, yet everyone treats them all, from goblins to centaurs to house elves like slightly-above-average-intelligence chimpanzees!"

Harry took a deep breathe. "This isn't spur of the moment. I've thought of this off and on for years: is being a wizard worth it? I just never had a choice in the matter. Well, now I do. I've killed Voldemort, the war is won, the dumb prophecy fulfilled, you don't need me anymore. I've completed my O.W.L.'s. Technically, I don't have to take my N.E.W.T.'s. I'll move into Grimmauld with Remus, tuck my wand into some drawer to be forgotten, maybe dye my hair and buy make-up to get rid of this stupid scar, get a simple job at a supermarket or something, fade into obscurity, and live a boring, ordinary life."

Dumbledore opened his mouth and closed it half-a-dozen times, trying to think of some way to convince the boy otherwise. It physically pained him to think of James' and Lily's son, the bright, eager boy who'd been so enamored with magic, fleeing from it all to live out his days as a muggle, denying his heritage. "You're still underage, Harry. You need a guardian. And much as it pains me, Remus doesn't count due to his, er, condition."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I'll apply for emancipation. The ministry should be feeling pretty warm towards me. And if Fudge hasn't already been tarred and feathered out of office and tries to stop me, I'll cry foul to every paper I can reach and scandal it out of him. And since you're not head of the Wizengamot anymore, you can't influence that. And before you say you'll take it back, you really _should_ have a few less jobs. I mean, being in charge of the legislative/judicial branch of the government, basically the mail-in executive until Fudge went barmy, representing our nation at the ICW, _and_ running the school? You might want to dial it back, sir. You're not 83 anymore."

Dumbledore had no comeback to that. It was a sound strategy. And the boy _did_ have a point at the end there. "Are you sure you can function without magic Harry? Keep in mind that means no more Quidditch."

"It's not really the flying I like, it's the freedom. And I'll have plenty of that once I'm out from under the weight of being _the_ Harry Potter. And it's not like I'm some 47-year-old wearing a kilt with a paisley trench coat. I've been able to cook, clean, and launder since I was five."

Dumbledore was getting desperate. "Harry, I can't let you live at Grimmauld. It's the Order's Headquarters. Besides, there's still the Death Eaters to consider. Who knows how they'll react to their master's death? You really would be best off going back to your aunt's house, at least for the summer."

Harry would later blame the audacity for his next move on the strong pain relieving potions Poppy had been administering intravenously. He'd been feeling floaty and not-all-there the whole conversation. So he didn't think he could be held accountable for what he did under the influence. No matter how many times Dumbledore assured him there was no harm done, Harry still considered it the stupidest, most embarrassing action of his entire life.

He grabbed Albus Dumbledore, Grand Sorcerer, and defeater of Grindelwald, revered throughout the Wizarding World… by the beard.

"You listen to me, _sir_ , and you listen good. Let? Who the bloody hell do you think you are? You are not my grandfather. You are not my keeper. You are not my fucking publicity agent. You are my school headmaster. You're supposed to be in charge of my education. No more, no less. In fact, I'm sure a court or Skeeter might find it interesting just how closely you've paid attention to my personal life. As for the Order, they will just have to move house. Maybe to the Burrow. Or, hell, maybe you could stop using everyone else like pawns and offer up your own home for use? The Death Eaters are a snake without a head; there'll be some random acts of terror, swiftly cleaned up, and they'll all be Dementor food by the time my year graduates. And let me spell things out for you regarding my home situation, since your eyesight seems to be even worse than those dumbass glasses would indicate. Which sounds safer to you? A townhouse in the heart of London, under the protection of the Fidelius Charm, with _you_ as the Secret-Keeper? Or a suburb a ten minute drive from the nearest police station, where I would spend half the day outside in plain view taking care of the garden, protected only by blood wards that only you seem to know about, where I'd be verbally and physically abused? Who knows, maybe this year will finally escalate to the point where Vernon manages to kill me or I get depressed enough to do it for him!"

Harry would also blame the potions for his candor.

Dumbledore was admittedly dazed. No one had ever confronted him quite like this. "Harry, I'm sure you're exaggerating. They're your family—"

"Oh, spare me the rose-tinted glasses! Plenty of families are total crap, you can't possibly be that naïve after almost a century in a school! And would you grow some balls and just admit you know by now?! Pomfrey's seen my scars! You've had Figg spying on me since day one! And I've swallowed it and kept my head down each year since I had no other choice and I rationalized you probably knew better and it really was the safest option. But like hell I'm going back to that house now that the noseless wonder is dead!"

Harry was panting. His eyes closed against his will, his grip slackened, and he fell back into an exhausted sleep. Dumbledore just stood there, staring at the boy who'd been through more than he could imagine, feeling more like a failure than he ever had before.

He stood there, trapped in his thoughts, until Madam Pomfrey came bustling, alerted by one of the silent alarms charmed to each bed. "Albus, really, what were you thinking confronting him so early? Everything he went through that night, shame on you, I told you he needed rest!"

Dumbledore finally roused himself. He didn't want to believe what Harry had just said, but if there was one thing that age had taught him, it was the perils of denying your own imperfection. "Poppy… have you ever had any concerns that young Harry was being… mistreated by his relatives?"

She turned to him, a look a savage relief on her face. "I've waited years for you to ask that. As you know, the vows I took when I took my post as Matron Mediwitch here prevent me from disclosing any details of my patients' conditions without their express permission… unless I am directly asked by either their guardian or the current headmaster."

Dumbledore braced himself. "I'm asking, Poppy."

"Based on the stomachaches and vomiting he gets for the first two weeks every year, not to mention the permanent damage to his growth from malnutrition, it's safe to say he's starved. He usually has a serious vitamin D deficiency as well, so probably locked inside as well. His bones have so many hairline fractures it's a wonder he doesn't get a break walking down the stairs, let alone twisting through the air like he does. There's signs of more serious injuries, as well. A cursory scan shows that his eyes have been collapsed multiple times and there are signs of at least one crack on his skull, as if a large fist or blunt object hit his head or face. Probably why he needs glasses in the first place, he probably inherited Lily's vision as well as her coloring. There's a burn scar on his back of a crucifix, almost like a brand. It's slightly malformed, almost like it stretched with the skin. This suggests he got it when he was very young. A major ligament in his left knee was torn violently, suggesting it was bent out of position, possibly by a kick to the side. There's probably even more, but his magic healed most of it. Actually, half his core at any time is spent just holding him together. If he were raised _properly_ , he'd probably be on a level with you by now, Albus."

"Well, it's not every boy that can cast a corporeal Patronus at 13," Dumbledore said weakly. He was stunned. Never could he have imagined this. Harry always seemed so… well, maybe not happy, but certainly not so battered. He was horrifyingly reminded of what happened to Ariana. "And he never told you why he was being hurt? Not even the slightest hint you could use to circumvent your vow?"

She shook her head sadly. "The boy was always silent as a statue. When it came to his school injuries, it was usually obvious what the cause was so I didn't need to ask. But if a problem arose because of _this_ , not one word. He'd just ask for a potion, and if I refused, he'd just turn and leave."

Poppy suddenly gained a look of such ferocity that Dumbledore was reminded just why a Badger was considered an apex predator. "Albus, I must admit that I've lost a great deal of respect in you. Minerva _warned_ you just how horrid those muggles were. Did it never occur to you even once to even check up on him? I mean, at first, I held out hope that you would find out like you seem to know everything and put a stop to it. Then I had a mad moment where I thought you knew and allowed it to happen anyway, as if his health meant nothing as long as you got to keep your precious weapon in the war against You-Know—oh, sod it, Voldemort! But then I realized that you're just a man like the rest of us mere mortals and you honestly didn't know. Then it became even more unbearable as you watched him with such pride as he overcame all these challenges and you had no idea that the real threat was the one he had to return to at the end of each term."

She shook her head and leaned down to feel Harry's forehead. "Well, no more. I heard him from my office, you know. And he's right. We've asked more than enough of him for a lifetime. He should be free to do what he wants. Let him have some peace for once."

Dumbledore had no response. He just took a moment to look at the boy that had failed more than he could have ever imagined, then turned and walked away.

Harry spent what little remained of the year feeling like a plague victim. He was allowed visits outside for fresh air and social interaction, but was under strict orders to return to the Hospital Wing every night to see if there was any lingering damage from his confrontation with Voldemort. Not that Harry was very tempted to leave, no matter how much he disliked getting fussed over or being forced to drink ghastly potions. Students parted around him like the Red Sea before Moses, closing behind him with whispers louder than screams in his wake. People seemed torn between calling him 'Savior' and 'Executioner'. Slytherins reviled him, blaming him for the death of their Lord and/or the arrest of their parents; suddenly the Ministry was much more interested in the list mentioned in the Quibbler article. Ravenclaws either studied him from afar or went right up to him and asked him probing questions on the exact method he used to vanquish the Dark Lord. Hufflepuffs seemed grateful that he'd avenged their fallen champion, but seemed both uncomfortable that he was getting all the credit considering others were involved and jealous that no Hufflepuff members of the DA were invited.

His fellow Gryffindors were the worst disappointment. People normally treated Ron on a tantrum as so much hot air. But if he betrayed the Boy Who Lived after what most would consider his greatest triumph, then there must be some weight to his accusations, right? It was helped along by Ron throwing the fact that Harry was almost sorted into Slytherin in the face of anyone who would stay still enough to listen. That was really the nail in the coffin of their friendship. Harry _might_ have been able to forgive the rest as Ron's big mouth in the wake of the worst night of the redhead's life. But betraying that secret, told in the strictest of confidence that proved to him that Ron had really turned his back on everything he'd thought they'd had together.

The irony made Harry want to cry, really. His brotherly love for Ron was part of what let him beat Voldemort. The moment he won, the bastard turned on him and became an enemy worse than Malfoy, because each fresh wound was touched by the sting of treachery. Life _really_ was out to get him, wasn't it?

What was worse, Hermione _did_ follow on Ron's coattails. He saw them snogging in the library when he'd gone there hoping to find her. When Ron noticed and went off on him, Hermione just kept her eyes down and mouth shut. So that was a little salt on the wound, but Harry was almost numb to any more pain at that point.

About the only consolation was that Umbridge was in St. Mungo's recovering from 'undisclosed injuries' at the hands of the centaurs. When Harry had asked Firenze what that meant in a moment of morbid curiosity, he'd gotten a smirk and the comment "There are certain ways a stallion can break a mare." The resulting mental imagery had made Harry want to ask Snape if there was such a thing as brain bleach, but had pleased some small, sadistic corner of his newly tainted soul. The scars on his right hand twitched whenever he thought of the deranged pink-wearing woman.

Harry had never been lonelier than he'd been on the train ride to Charring Cross that year. It was final, because he truly didn't intend to return to Hogwarts, his second home, at least not for learning purposes. Also, because he had the whole compartment to himself and he didn't anticipate any visitors. Neville was too timid, who knew what Luna was thinking, Ginny might actually be bullied by the newly emboldened Ron, and everyone else had abandoned him. Hedwig he had sent ahead, wanting her to get one last chance to stretch her wings before she was confined to a limited nocturnal schedule in an urban landscape.

He spent most of the trip mourning. Sirius, whose loss finally had time to sink in. Ron, the friend who had revealed himself as anything but. His parents, lost before they could watch him grow because of the foolishness of two old men. The idea of Dumbledore as the infallible hero, now revealed as just as stupid as every other guy at times. All those who'd lost their lives in both wars because of the dogma and hatred of those in power and the madness of one charismatic leader.

And he mourned for a little orphan boy sorted into Slytherin, who might not have grown into a monster if he'd had just one friend or person who'd gone out of their way to show him kindness.

When he arrived, he almost wished that he'd dug out his invisibility cloak. Reporters from what looked like every paper and magazine in Europe were crowding the platform. The families they were hoarding space from might have been more annoyed if most of them didn't seem as frenzied to see him.

He was debating whether he wouldn't rather have another go against Lucius Malfoy or Macnair than face the mob when Remus Lupin entered his compartment. The two had stared at each other for a second before they'd rushed into each other's arms.

"It'll be alright, cub. Everything will be alright," the man grey before his time whispered into the boy's hair.

"I'm so tired, Moony. I just want to rest. That's not too much to ask, is it?"

"No, not at all. Just… why Grimmauld? There's other places. There are so many bad memories there. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer somewhere fresh?"

Harry sighed. "It's protected. It's familiar. And… I'm not going to just give up on it. That's what went wrong with Voldemort. Besides, I want to make it a happy place. If it wasn't so damn depressing, maybe Padfoot wouldn't have been so eager to get out of it."

Remus gulped. "Harry, you mustn't blame yourself. Voldemort has fooled and manipulated better men than you. And you're so young."

"I was supposed to learn Occlumency. I'm the one that took Kreacher's word for it. I'm the one that forgot fucking Snape was in the Order. And I'm the one with the damn saving people thing that made me go off half-cocked from Scotland to London instead of leaving it to the adults like a good little boy."

Remus shook his head. "Enough of this kind of talk. Let's get you out of here before there's a riot or Molly kidnaps you from me and force feeds you her latest recipes."

Harry tried and failed to hide a shiver. "You mean… she still wants to see me?"

Remus pulled back and looked at him like he was crazy. "Why wouldn't she?"

"Well, Ron's been a right prat, saying how I've gone dark and should be put down like a dog. Hermione's either on his side or not stopping him, and Ginny didn't come to see me so…"

Remus shook his head. "That boy. Well, Molly will ream him out for his behavior, I'll tell you. I don't think you realize just how much you mean to her, Harry. You save her daughter and her husband. And she knows you gave Fred and George their seed money. She's become much more supportive once their shop matched Zonko's within three months, and they keep telling her it wouldn't be possible without you. You're like another son to her."

Harry's throat was suddenly very tight. "Oh."

Remus shook his head. "Look, let's just get out of here. You can deal with everything in your own time. There's no rush now."

Harry nodded dumbly.

Remus hefted Harry's trunk, his thin arms deceptively strong, one of the subtle signs of his curse. Then he wrapped his nephew in all but blood in his arms and twisted them through space towards their new home.

When the appeared in the hallway of 12 Grimmauld with a pop, it was to find Kreacher huddled at the door, looking oddly diminished. "Werewolf and Halfblood boy have returned," he muttered to himself. Harry genuinely didn't know if he thought they couldn't hear or if he just thought aloud.

Harry sighed. It would be so easy to hate Kreacher for the role he played in Sirius's death. But it wasn't really his fault. He'd been brainwashed from birth. And Sirius hadn't been the best of masters. "Kreacher, I'm really not in the mood for this. Could you please just stay in your nest and I'll promise to stay out of your way?"

Kreacher stared at him as if he couldn't comprehend being spoken to in such a kind tone. It occurred to him that Harry had never addressed Kreacher except for that evening in the fire. Then he wrung his hands. "Is… is it true that boy has slain the Dark Lord?"

Harry hesitated. He'd seen how Dobby had lain Lucius on his ass. He wasn't sure how Kreacher would react to this news. He kept his hand on his wand. "Yes. Yes it is, Kreacher."

Remus laid a hand on Harry's shoulder, his eyes narrowed on the wrinkled servant.

What the elf did next, neither of them could have possibly predicted.

He broke down in sobs, huge wracking cries that shook his entire hunched frame. He knelt down at Harry's feet, but when Harry went to check on him in worry, he was shocked to see the biggest smile he thought possible on Kreacher's mouth.

"Thank you," Kreacher gasped. "Thank you."

The noise seemed to annoy the resident portrait, and Walburga Black began to raise an unholy racket. "WHAT IS THIS CLAMMOR?! HOW DARE YOU DISTURB THE HOME OF MY FATHERS?! MUDBLOODS, FILTHY CREATURES, UNFIT TO WALK THESE HALLOWED HALLS!"

What happened next would forever change how Harry saw house elves.

Kreacher turned to the portrait that he had lovingly cared for and obeyed for decades, eyes bloodshot, face a rictus of fury as whatever moment he was having was ruined.

" **MISTRESS WILL BE QUIET!** " he roared from his tiny throat.

Then he snapped his bony fingers.

Where once a portrait of the Black matriarch hung, which had defied the efforts of Dumbledore to be moved, silenced, or destroyed, was now just a patch of blackened wall.

Harry and Remus stared in shock, while Kreacher just sniffled.

"Mistress was Kreacher's Mistress, but she was always making Master Regulus miserable."

Harry and Remus shared a look. It was clear that there was a whole lot to the elf that they had never known.

They managed to pry the whole story out of Kreacher over cups of tea, which Kreacher had been too upset to pitch a fit over him not making. Turns out, while Kreacher had worshipped the ground that Walburga had walked on, he had adored Regulus as some odd cross of parent, son, and best friend. And since Sirius had decided to ditch his duties as firstborn and rebel, all the weight had fallen on Regulus. So of course he'd become a Death Eater, whether he'd wanted to or not. And when Regulus had learned that Voldemort had used Kreacher to hide a Horcrux, Regulus had to do something. Though for reasons Kreacher never understood, Regulus had Kreacher take the Horcrux and run, sacrificing himself to the defenses instead of letting Kreacher die as was his duty.

At that point, Harry reached out a hand and laid it over Kreacher's. "It was because he loved you, Kreacher. He didn't want you to have to die. And maybe he thought he wouldn't live long with Voldemort after him, so he might as well die nobly, protecting another."

Kreacher shook his head, but he didn't move to shrug off the hand. "It was Kreacher's place to die. Master Regulus still had life to live. Master Regulus did not even have an heir. Neither did nasty Master Sirius."

Harry grimaced. "Guess that means Draco inherits you."

Lupin shook his head. "As firstborn son of the first heir, Sirius's will takes precedence over simple line of succession. If he didn't name you as his heir Harry, I'll eat my robes."

Kreacher looked up then. "Harry Potter triumphed over Dark Lord. Harry Potter avenged Master Regulus. Harry Potter may be Kreacher's new master." He looked down. "Kreacher has been a bad elf. Kreacher will take clothes like good elf and leave."

Harry sighed. "Everyone deserves a second chance, Kreacher. Just stop with all the crap about mudbloods and we'll get along fine."

Thus struck up one of the oddest friendships Harry ever had. From that day forward, Kreacher seemed like a new man, er, elf. He doted on Harry so much he made Molly Weasley look negligent. His cup was always full of honey tea, just how he liked it, pillows always fluffed, and every successive meal came closer and closer to Harry's idea of perfection. When Kreacher came forward with the Locket, now a burned husk, and Harry said Kreacher could do what he wanted with it, the elf looked ready to kiss him. When Remus returned from the will reading and revealed Harry was indeed the sole benefactor of the entire estate, Kreacher all but did a jig.

The month of July was spent trying to form a routine in the aftermath of the world-shattering events of June 18. Harry woke up each morning, enjoyed breakfast in bed, which never ceased to be a novel experience. He'd endure the barrage of headlines, at least 80% of which seemed to involve him in some way. He'd then answer any letters he'd gotten, which took a surprising amount of time. Mrs. Weasley proved to not have given up on him in the slightest. Fred and George wanted to consult their 'primary investor' almost daily. Ginny thought he wouldn't take Ron seriously and seemed determined to make up for her lapse in judgment. Luna delighted him every other day with 'helpful hints', 'food for thought', and requests for another exclusive, which he was almost tempted to grant. Surprisingly, he'd gotten a thank-you note from Daphne Greengrass for taking down Voldemort. As she explained it, anyone that put any effort into the research knew that he'd been a Halfblood, and the 'more respectable' Pureblood families had considered it a disgrace how the rest had allowed themselves to be branded like cattle by a 'lesser being' for the sake of greed and the excuse to act on baser urges. He'd answered back as best he could, adding in a few compliments for good measure. She'd written back, responding to his compliments and commenting on the surprising number of faux pas he had committed in a six-inch letter, and they'd had a stilted correspondence since. Hedwig was certainly kept busy.

All that letter writing usually lasted until lunch, enjoyed in the kitchen, which was much less like a cave now that it was properly ventilated and new windows installed. Kreacher had moved, at Harry's express order, into a bedroom, though he'd compromised on it being the smallest. All the Black heirlooms that Sirius had scorned and Kreacher treasured were now hung with pride in the elf's room, and the water heater mysteriously seemed to double in capacity overnight. Harry noted that the house looked better within a week than it had in a year of the Order trying to make it livable. He wondered if it was because Kreacher had been secretly sabotaging them or because the house was being treated with love instead of being treated like a rabid animal to be tamed.

Remus usually spent lunch looking at the job listings, not that Harry knew why. Sirius had given him a big enough endowment to live frugally for a decade. They often chatted, sharing stories. It became swiftly clear that Harry had really known very little about that man. He'd known him in the abstract as a teacher and a friend of his parents, but he quickly became a person. He learned what foods he couldn't stand, his history, what made him laugh. They truly bonded. It cracked him up when he learned that while Sirius's Animagus form had scared him as a baby, his favorite stuffed animal had been a wolf gifted to him by Remus. The man-child had pouted for a month at that. "Dogs are descended from wolves, what's the bloody difference?!" he'd whine. Out of Harry's earshot, of course, Lily would tear his tongue out if he'd sworn around her baby.

After lunch, Harry usually holed himself up in the Black family library, reading up on magic. Don't get him wrong, he was still determined to leave it all behind. But he was no fool. Just because he wanted to leave it, it didn't mean it would leave him. There might come a time where magic might be needed to save his life, as someone from that world came after him. And hell, if ever a situation arose where someone he loved could be saved but he needed to use magic, he knew what choice he'd make every time. His request for emancipation had been processed the same day, so at least he was allowed to practice despite not being seventeen yet. That was one of the few times he was glad he was famous.

The books were of a distinctly more… 'open-minded' authorship than the texts used by Hogwarts, but that generally meant they were filled with tons of interesting tidbits that were usually censored out rather than full of blood supremacy or instructions on how to become a Lich. Harry found himself getting genuinely interested in the material. And since there was no homework and no deadlines, he was free to take breaks to play a game or wander the house.

After dinner, Harry would usually tuck in early with a novel. He'd been getting tired more easily recently. He didn't realize his magical core was saving up a little each day for the surge that would come on his sixteenth birthday. But every now on then, Harry would tuck his hair under a beanie, put on some jeans and a t-shirt, dab concealer on his scar that was still with him after the soul fragment behind it had died, and hit the town. Well, not really. He didn't find a fake ID and go to a teen club or anything. He'd just wander the streets, always staying with crowds and being smart, just absorbing the atmosphere and seeing the sights of nighttime London. Maybe step into a coffee shop a sit in the corner, listen to the music and people watch. Surprisingly, even though he had no muggle money, half the time he got a drink. Usually from waitresses with big-sister eyes, twice from men with easy smiles, and once from a girl with wandering feet that had made Harry's face so red it was probably visible from space.

There were only two breaks from this comforting cocoon. The first was the first Saturday, where Harry had been summoned to the office of Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He'd been a nervous wreck, convinced he'd be convicted of murder and chucked into Sirius's old cell. But instead, he'd gotten a handshake, a cup of tea so strong it could hold a spoon vertical, and been asked to give a statement of the events of that night. She'd been firm, no-nonsense, but not unkind. Harry got the distinct sense that if she'd been in charge instead of Barty Crouch, Sirius would have definitely gotten a trial.

The second was infinitely more mortifying. On the 24th, exactly a week before his birthday, he'd been dragged kicking and screaming to an award ceremony. _His_ , to be exact. Despite his sincerest efforts, including literally begging on his knees to Dumbledore, he would have to publically accept the Order of Merlin for his defeat of Voldemort. When the old wizard had mentioned he'd been approached about possibly getting a chocolate frog card on his behalf, the boy had given him a look of endless grief. "Do I even need to tell you what I think of that?"

It had been torture. He'd had to endure three hours of listening to strangers give speech after speech extoling his virtues, sweating to death in his stiff, rented dress robes. When he'd finally been called up to grab the gold-and-crystal star from a simpering Fudge, he'd very nearly bolted. He'd tried to keep his grimace as small as possible as he shook hands with the coward, and walked right back to his seat before anyone could even suggest he make his own speech. Fudge took the opportunity to do a little grandstanding of his own. When he'd called out "Consider it an early birthday present, Harry m'boy!" Harry wondered if his newly acquired public favor would pardon him attacking the minister in front of witnesses.

Ron made what he'd thought of the whole affair very clear. Harry wondered where he'd gotten his hands on Howler parchment. If he'd stolen it from his mother, he'd either learned a thing or two from his twin brothers or he was stupider than Harry had thought in his most ungracious moments. At two Galleons a page, the mother of seven would definitely not appreciate the loss.

Well, at least Kreacher had another thing to polish. He relished the activity the way most boys did time alone with dirty magazines.

All of which brings us back to that grey summer morning. Harry Potter had gone to sleep the night before expecting no great surprises for his sixteenth birthday. Maybe Kreacher would bake a cake, and Remus would be a bit more sentimental, but he'd told them in advance not to make too big a deal. Blame on his poor treatment at the hands of the Dursley's, but Harry saw his birthday as just another day of the week. Besides, it was just the three of them in the house, so why go to all the effort? A party should involve so many people you couldn't keep count. And he wasn't comfortable enough to leave his sanctuary just yet, so a quiet affair it would be.

Whether he liked it or not, though, there would be a great deal of noise. For this was a rather special birthday.

Harry roused himself, grateful he hadn't had any nightmares. He blinked. Scrunched his eyes. Opened them slowly. No, not a trick of the light. His vision was perfect. Actually, it was better than he'd pictured perfect to be. Which is to be expected, maybe, since the feeble human imagination surely couldn't capture the divine, but we're getting off topic. Where just yesterday his own hand was a blurry mess unless it was two inches from his face, he could now see the wrinkles, ridges, and subtle shifts in color and tone in the wallpaper directly above his head as if looking through a microscope. He slowly lifted his head. It was a bit jarring. He was aware of a macro image of his room like he was used to, but at the same time he could zoom in on every detail, down to the individual grains of the wood on the floor or the fibers that made up each thread of the jumper he'd folded over his desk chair. Dust motes danced a three-dimensional opera through the morning air. After being helpless without his glasses as long as he could remember, it was pretty cool. But still, he was cautious.

'Whoever said to not look a gift horse in the mouth hadn't been screwed over as many times as I have' Harry mused. 'Okay, Harry, don't panic. Walk slowly and calmly to the bathroom, look in the mirror. Make sure your eyes haven't doubled in size or anything.'

Harry tiptoed over to the bathroom on that floor. He was glad Remus hadn't been the kind to hover. He wouldn't have been able to handle that after the stifling attention that last week at Hogwarts. Harry made it to the small washroom and looked in the mirror, luckily not the kind that talked back. His new and improved eyes instantly noticed the new additions to his face: scales. White as snow, melded seamlessly with his skin, in a pattern around his eyes, cheeks, and nose like a masquerade mask. As he blinked, he caught a glimpse of them on his eyelids even. He saw them trail down his neck. Hesitantly, he pulled off his t-shirt and saw they didn't stop there. They flowed over his entire torso. He turned and saw them go down his shoulders and back, even his bum! He even noticed a few on his legs.

As Harry examined himself in mechanical efficiency, he realized that what the scales covered was a bit different than he was used to. His face was less gawky and more angular, his nose thin and straight, his lips poufy. His eyes were still the same size, but his lashes were so long he half expected to poke his own eye out each time he blinked. His hair, usually a rat's nest, flowed to mid-back smooth as silk. He was maybe an inch taller, but all his proportions were thrown off. He was… curvier? His waist was trim, his hips rounded, and dear God, had someone inflated his bum? His legs seemed to go for miles, so why was he still so short?

Then Harry noticed the most important thing. His skin. What little that wasn't covered by the scales. It was clear. Creamy as milk too, but utterly unblemished. Unmarked. Virginal. Wiped clean. He ran a finger over his right hand, the inside of his elbow, his side. Nothing. No sign that he was ever hurt. That _anyone_ had ever touched him.

That was almost enough to make him not care whatever caused this.

Harry shook himself of that foolish thinking.

'Okay Harry. First off, don't panic. Panic won't help anyone. Think like Hermione. Think like Hermione. Approach the situation logically.' Harry turned possible scenarios over in his mind. 'An extremely delayed reaction to the basilisk bite? Last laugh of Voldemort? Did Fred and George slip me anything?' The date suddenly clicked in his mind. 'Sixteenth birthday. A creature inheritance? No one ever said anything about Mum or Dad, but I guess it could be recessive.' Harry looked himself up and down. 'Not to toot my own horn, but I'm pretty enough to be a Veela. They have feathers though, not scales.'

Harry looked at the scales at his arm. He tried to pick at one, hoping to see it up close. There was a sudden itching sensation in his fingers, and suddenly he had inch-long claws. 'Huh. Less snake, more lizard. Maybe I'm part-dragon, but I don't have wings.'

Wings was the magic word, apparently.

Harry collapsed in pain as something literally _burst_ out of his back. He let out a scream, only instead of a human voice, it sounded more like a squawk, like a bird of prey in pain. He managed to stand up just as Remus and Kreacher crashed into the room.

Harry froze.

Remus, face filled with worry, dropped his jaw in shock. Kreacher's eyes seemed like they were going to pop out of his skull.

"Remus… I-I-I don't know what happened" Harry stammered. "But-but-but it's not going to be a problem. I'll find some way to fix it."

"Beautiful…" the werewolf whispered.

Harry paused. That was _not_ what he had been expected.

He risked a glance out of the corner of eye at the mirror.

True, they were covered with blood and what looked like some kind of membrane. But his wings were quite something. Stretching maybe a dozen feet, they were the same perfect white as the rest of his scales, only much larger. The began from the base of his neck to the middle of his rib cage, and taken with the rest of him, the image was that of a savage creature of elemental grace. Harry suddenly felt confined in the large-ish bathroom. He should be flying high above the clouds, hunting for prey, looking for a worthy mate to give him strong chicks—

Where the bloody hell had that come from?

Harry's odd biological clock freak out was interrupted by a sudden rush of frightening pleasure that seemed to bypass every barrier in its way to head straight for his groin.

He hissed and curled within himself, shouting "Don't do that!" before he realized what had happened.

Remus pulled back, retracting the hand that had brushed his wing. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself. Not used to them?"

Harry slowly shook his head, resisted the urge to be sick on the floor. "Sensitive. You're not allowed to make me feel like that."

Remus looked horrified. "Right. Duly noted." He sighed. "Okay. Alright. I wasn't prepared for this when I woke up this morning."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're telling me? I'm the one with the unknown creature inheritance!" Harry swallowed. "You're still okay with me living here, right?"

Remus grabbed some of his hair and pulled, giving Harry a 'what am I going to do with you' look. Then he crouched down and gave him a strong hug, wings, scales and all. "Silly boy. First off, it's your house. I'm the one living with you. But more importantly, I love you, Harry. You're my cub. I'll be with you, no matter what. Whether you believe me or not."

Harry sighed and relaxed into the arms of his Uncle Moony. "Thanks. I needed that."

"Whatever the birthday boy wants, he gets." Remus pulled back and scratched his head. "Though I'm not sure I can help with this. I have to admit, I haven't the slightest what you are. James wasn't a creature, I'd bet gold to donuts, and it'd be extraordinary for a Muggleborn to also have creature blood. Plus I don't recognize these features from any book."

"Idiot werewolf," Kreacher muttered.

"Kreacher, we've talked about this," Harry scolded.

"Kreacher apologizes, Master Harry," Kreacher forced, visibly trying. "It is just that the answer is so obvious."

"Wait, you know?" Remus asked.

"Of course, Kreacher has met many of Master Harry's kind."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Well don't keep us in suspense, Kreacher. Tell me what I am!"

Kreacher grinned. "Of course, Master Harry. You are a Submissive Dracken."

* * *

 **That should do for a start. Let me know what you think. Please? Pretty please?**


	2. Discovery

**Lots of positive attention in such short amount of time! That's encouraging. Well, let's get this show on the road.**

Remus and Harry had very different reactions to Kreacher's declaration.

"Dracken?" the elder asked fearfully. He'd heard stories. Tales of families massacred when one of their own had revealed themselves as a bloodthirsty monster in a fit of temper. Drackens were the cuckoo bird boogiemen of the Wizarding World. They were so good at hiding, you never knew who could be one, or how much control they had over their temper. And now Harry was one! Remus felt a shiver of fear run down his spine. Then he shook his head and reminded himself that people said the exact same thing about werewolves and if his friends had believed that then where would he be? Harry needed his support and by God he'd get it.

"Submissive?!" Harry screeched. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I'm not some doormat! I'm not some weakling! Why don't you say that to my face, Kreacher?!"

Kreacher seemed unfazed to have a snarling dragonoid in his face. "Kreacher is not meaning Master Harry any insult. Kreacher is just stating fact. If Master Harry were a Dominant Dracken, his wings would be bigger and his scales would not be white."

Harry shook his head. "Dominant, Submissive, what is this, some kinky dragon sex creature?"

Harry had no way of knowing how close he actually was.

Kreacher shrugged, unconcerned. "They is also being known as Alpha Dracken and Beta Dracken. One is being aggressive and fathering the chicks, the other is being protective and mothering the chicks. And if Kreacher may be so bold, he be thinking Master Harry will be an excellent Mother."

"Mother?! How is that even possible?! I'm a guy! You still haven't told me what the hell a Dracken even is! How do you even know all this?" Harry's wings flared with his agitation, almost decapitating Remus as they flexed. They did managed to take out the towel rack.

Remus let out a delicate cough. "Wizards can get pregnant too, Harry. Not all of them, but a fairly large percentage are capable of bearing children. It's why homosexuality is so widely accepted in the Wizarding World, even among the most conservative Purebloods. Even if Draco Malfoy came out tomorrow, his parents wouldn't care because he could still have a blood heir. I'm not sure how you don't know this. I guess McGonagall doesn't have time to do the Sex Ed classes now that she's Deputy Headmistress now. But if you're a Dracken, then a whole different set of rules apply." He rubbed the back of his head. "I confess I won't be much help here. All I know about Drackens comes from horror stories. I don't know how much of it is fact and how much is propaganda or prejudice."

Kreacher cleared his throat. "Drackens are an ancient, noble race. The House of Black has had Dracken blood for centuries. They be a lot like wizards, but can have scales and wings and claws when they need. They mate for life, have a heat cycle, are very hardy, and are guided heavily by their instincts. If Master wishes to know more, Kreacher can show him books in the library. And Kreacher knows about Drackens because Master Regulus was also a Submissive Dracken."

Remus looked gobsmacked. "Really? Did Sirius know?"

Kreacher sneered, but it was maybe a bit smaller than it would have been a month ago. "No, nasty master did not know about Master Regulus. Nasty Sirius was too focused on his own friends to notice own brother. If he had, he never would have tried so hard to part Master Regulus from his beloved mate."

Remus turned pale as a ghost. "M-mate? Snape's a Dracken too? Wait, did you say mate?"

"Wait, what?" Harry asked, turning away from where he'd been unconsciously preening in the mirror. "Makes sense, I guess. If you squint, he looks like a bat. Turns out it was some other winged creature."

Kreacher ignored his master's comments to answer the houseguest's question. Now that he was forbidden from discriminating based on blood or creature status, he had to fall back on pure etiquette. And Kreacher was determined to be the best elf he could be on that point.

"Master Regulus was lucky. Submissive Drackens cannot be with non-Drackens. To lay with any but a Dominant Dracken would leave him barren and unable to have chicks. How happy he was to discover that the boy he'd loved for a year was a Dracken when he gained his inheritance! They were mated in secret and so, so happy. Even with nasty Sirius trying to ruin it, saying Master Severus was using love potion or was just using Master Regulus to get back at nasty master and his friends for all the cruel pranks they pulled. Then they became with child and Master Regulus seemed to glow. Mistress and old Master were so proud, they told everyone they could." Then Kreacher snarled. "And then nasty master's friend caused the miscarriage. And nasty master wondered why Master Severus hated him so."

"Can you explain what he's talking about? Because I'm sure I'm misunderstanding him. Moony? Please tell me I'm misunderstanding him." Harry looked up at Remus with teary eyes.

Lupin gulped. "Sirius was always distant with his brother. But he did love him, in his way. That's why it drove him mad when Regulus started to date Severus Snape in fifth year. It was mostly innocent and we teased him for his whining, but then Regulus turned sixteen and everything changed. Suddenly you never found Regulus out of Snape's sight. He was always plastered to his side, more often than not snogging him senseless. It became a running joke of how often they were caught in broom closets. Sirius went mental. He was sure that foul play was involved, that there was no way 'Snivellus' actually cared about his baby brother. I tried to stay out of, but your father joined in. I don't know if he actually believed it too or if he was just trying to be a good friend. The prank war between them and Snape went to another level. And then Regulus got pregnant and Sirius just went ballistic. That's when he sent Snape down the Whomping Willow after me. Regulus tore him a new asshole for that, telling him that his niece would never see him."

Remus gathered himself. "Harry, I need to you to understand something, first and foremost. That miscarriage was an accident. You have to know that. Sirius and James were young, reckless, thoughtlessly cruel at times, but they weren't the kind of people that would take an innocent life like that. It was dark. Regulus was up late walking. James was on patrol when he got a report that Lily was in the hospital wing. He just took off. When he saw some slow figure in his way, he just shoved them to the side. He had no idea who they were or what he'd done. And he didn't know until Regulus was brought into the Hospital Bed across from Lily and started screaming that James was a murderer."

Harry covered his mouth in horror. "Oh my god. Oh my god. That poor baby. Poor Regulus. And _Snape_ …" Harry hung his head. "No wonder he always hated me. I'd hate me too. I could never forgive anyone that took away my baby."

Remus cautiously hugged the boy. "Harry, it wasn't your fault. You weren't even born. You aren't accountable for the sins of your father."

"My dad killed his child, Moony. Accident or not, at the end of the day, my dad's the reason Snape doesn't have a little girl. And then he went and had me. Having to see me every day at Hogwarts, in the Great Hall, heck in the Common Room if I'd been sorted in Slytherin… can you imagine what a slap in the face that must be? I'm surprised he restrained himself to name-calling and point-taking. He could have given me weekly Crucio sessions under the guise of detention."

Remus stiffened. He didn't like just how cavalier Harry was being about his possible torture. "Right. I think that's enough for now. You shouldn't process all this on an empty stomach. Let's get down to the kitchen and have your birthday breakfast."

Harry chuckled and quickly swiped at his eyes. He bent to pick up his t-shirt before he realized a slight logistical issue. "Um, Kreacher. Did Regulus tell you the secret to making the wings… go away?"

The beauty of house elves is that they are physically incapable of mocking their masters, and thus are possessed of infinite patience, no matter how stumbling the request. "To make your Dracken features disappear, Master Harry, simply wish them hidden."

Harry shrugged. "Think happy thoughts. Sure thing, Tinkerbell," he muttered. Scrunching his eyes, he focused all his mental energies on an image of the Harry Potter he'd seen in the mirror yesterday. No scales, no wings, no perfectly symmetrical face, normal unmanageable hair, ordinary half-chewed nails, nothing out of the ordinary. There was a full body squirming sensation, as bits and bobs he didn't know he had shifted to make room for all the new things. But when he opened his eyes, he looked normal. The only thing he kept was the 40/40 vision. Like hell he was going back to being legally blind.

Harry took a moment to glance at his shirtless self in the mirror. No break between three squares at Hogwarts and Kreacher becoming his personal chef meant that, unlike this time last year, he couldn't count each of his ribs. He was far from strapping, but he didn't look so much like a stick anymore. He'd like to be a bit taller, but based on everything he'd read on inheritances (which wasn't much, but that was sure to change) the change usually pushed you to your final height.

Still, if he didn't read anything to the contrary, maybe he'd shell out for that nutrient potion course he'd seen. It was basically just a magical multivitamin, what was the harm? Might help to finally put some meat on his bones.

Harry went downstairs and tried to eat his bacon as if nothing particularly special had happened. Remus picked up on it and tried to make chit-chat over the nonsense in the Prophet. Harry was just glad the entire front page wasn't some kind of thank-you message or birthday greeting. He was rattled enough to give Hedwig a full hug instead of her usual scratch when she brought the morning mail, but she declined to comment. She just gave an extra gentle nip before 'stealing' the last piece of bacon he'd left untouched and making for the attic.

Harry felt his heart warm as he opened card after card, extracting the shrunk presents from within. He didn't want to think about how many had been returned to sender since the owls couldn't find him, but it was nice to know he still had friends. Mrs. Weasley's gift was a basket filled with enough desserts for him to do his own bake sale. Fred and George had sent a deluxe sampler pack from W3 (Business is booming, partner! – Gred and Forge). Mr. Weasley had gotten him a copy of Beedle the Bard, a collection of wizarding children stories. Considering the man's fascination with things that Harry considered common sense, it seemed appropriate. Ginny's card had simply read 'Enjoy' and been taped to a box. He'd lifted up the lid, only to immediately slam it shut. Remus looked up and Harry made a supreme effort to not blush. He moved it to the 'seen' pile and moved on, mentally preparing the ritual bonfire to destroy the nightmarish gift.

Where did Ginny even _get_ those kind of toys?

Luna sent him this month's Quibbler, including a complimentary pair of Spectrespecs which 'allow you to see creatures which otherwise avoid the Visible Plane'. For fun, Harry threw them on, and was shocked to suddenly see what looked like a cloud of yellow gnats appear around Remus's head. He lifted the cardboard frames, and despite the most intense staring with his new eyes, couldn't see any hint of their presence. But he dropped the red and blue lenses back over his eyes and there they were. He flipped through the Quibbler to the Bestiary section and found them. 'Wrackspurts: Invisible creatures which float into a person's ears and make their brain go fuzzy. Recent findings suggest an infection may be dispelled by the subject thinking positive thoughts.'

"Uh, Moony?"

Remus shook his head. "Yes, Harry. Sorry, I don't seem to be all here this morning."

"Can you cast a Patronus right now?"

The werewolf's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Um, because I've never seen yours? And I want to see the Patronus of the man who taught me how to cast one!"

Remus smiled warmly. "Well, who am I to deny the birthday boy?" With a flick of his wand and a muttered "Expecto patronum," a silvery wolf was suddenly bounding around the breakfast table. Kreacher gave it a look of disdain before he seemed to realize that a cloud of mist was unlikely to make a mess in his kitchen, and went back to supervising the dishes washing themselves.

Harry watched as the cloud around his uncle's head dissipated and the little things floated out the window, apparently in search of new victims.

He would never doubt or make fun of Luna _ever_ again.

Harry managed to decipher Hagrid's scrawl, which had him grinning at thoughts of the gentle giant. He'd use the rock cakes as paperweights. He was less pleased to see Dumbledore's spidery calligraphy. He wasn't sure how he felt about the old Headmaster. Pomfrey had explained how she literally couldn't tell him about her suspicions. And the old man had admitted (in a letter, not to his face, so he lost points for that) that he never got around to reading the reports from Arabella Figg. As Harry had pointed out, until recently, Dumbledore had a bit too much on his plate. It was exhausting to hold a grudge. It was tempting to let bygones be bygones. But Harry didn't want to just let things go. He couldn't. If he didn't stand up for himself at some point, who would?

He got no gift from Daphne, but he did receive what could only be called a missive wishing him well. He could only shake his head at the rigidity and ceremony of Purebloods. No wonder they were all barking.

The last letter in the pile was of thick parchment and just looking at it intimidated Harry. Hesitantly, he opened it and read the first few lines to get the gist. "Gringotts sent me a letter."

Remus looked up. "Hmm. Well, as you're emancipated now, I guess you have access to the Potter Family accounts, not just your trust vault. It's customary for heirs to set up a meeting with their family accountants. Today we can deal with your inheritance, but you should go by Friday at the latest. Best not to keep the goblins waiting."

Harry cocked his head. "Trust vault? Family accounts? What are you talking about?"

Remus took a deep breath and counted to ten. He had to phrase this carefully. He noticed that Harry had a habit of taking the blame for things. He didn't want his young charge to feel like a fool. "Harry, did no one explain to you that you had more than just Vault 687 to your name?"

Harry shook his head 'no'.

Remus assumed his 'teacher' voice. "That isn't all the money you have in the world, Harry. It's a relatively small amount James set aside for you at your birth to pay for your school expenses and to cover personal purchases. It was meant to act as a sort of lifetime pocket money until you became 17 and became eligible to use the Potter Family funds, assuming you even used them and didn't just get a job and use your own money like your Dad did. Your trust vault was the first time he dipped into the family coffers, and that's because it's a tradition going back generations."

Harry felt like someone had just ripped the rug out from under his perception of the world. In a good way. "Family money? I have family money?"

Remus nodded. "The Potters are old money. Lots of luck with the markets. They don't win every bet, but they seem to succeed at more ventures than they fail. I had a serious case of déjà vu for your grandfather when I heard you'd invested in Fred and George. He was a regular Midas, that Charlus. He's the one that backed the Nimbus group when they were just a couple of Hogwarts grads going up against Cleensweep. Now Nimbus makes league-quality brooms and Cleensweep is a term for a cheap knock-off."

"Charlus? My grandfather's name was Charlus?" Harry asked, eyes bright as the brokenhearted child within showed through.

Remus felt something within him break. "No one ever told you about your grandparents?"

Harry shook his head. "Everyone only ever wants to talk about Mum and Dad. 'You look just like your dad. But you have your mother's eyes'. That's all most people have to say about my family. I have no idea about any other relative I might have. Let alone where this Dracken stuff came from. I'm guessing I didn't just spontaneously become one. Though that sounds like something that would happen to me."

"Master Harry James Potter, Submissive Dracken, is being the only son of James Charlus Potter, Pureblood Wizard, and Lily Potter nee Evans, Muggleborn Witch," Kreacher spoke up, appearing almost in a trance. "James Charlus Potter is being the only son of Charlus Potter, Pureblood Wizard, and Dorea Black, Pureblood Witch. Dorea Black is being the second daughter and fourth child of Cygnus Black II, Dominant Dracken, and Violetta Bulstrode, Pureblood Witch." Kreacher than shook his head and bowed low. "Kreacher is apologizing. Mistress Walburga stressed the importance of knowing the bloodlines, and Kreacher remembered his lessons too well for a moment. Kreacher be sorry if he made young Master uncomfortable."

Harry waved his hand, eyes wide. "No, no! Thank you! You gave me more information in two minutes than I've gotten in two years! So, I got my Dracken blood from my great-grandfather? Why'd he marry a human? You'd think he'd want to be with another Dracken. Unless he really loved Violetta. Or could he not find another Dracken? Are there not many? Wait, am I part of an endangered species now? Oh dear God, I'm going to die alone, aren't I?"

Kreacher headed off the freak out with a perfectly timed cup of honey tea. "Calm, Master Harry. Is true that Dominant Drackens would and shall always prefer to mate with a Submissive. Though they can and often will have families with humans, they shall always long for a Submissive to call their own. However, Cygnus Black II had no choice. His father, Phineas Nigellus Black, made a magically binding betrothal contract when he was born. He had no choice in marrying Violetta."

"That's horrible!" Harry cried. "I'd never do that to my children." Harry paused. "Wait. Why didn't you call Cygnus or Phineas Master?"

Kreacher shrugged. "Kreacher never met them, Master Harry. Phineas was dead before Kreacher was born and Kreacher never served Cygnus II. Though they were both proud patriarchs of Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, Kreacher need not respect them needlessly."

Harry nodded then abruptly stood up. "Right. Thank you very much for the family history lesson, Kreacher, Remus. But I can only be distracted so long. I really just need to find out what the bloody hell I am now, since apparently it isn't human anymore."

"Of course, Harry. Take as much time as you need," Remus said, using the voice he'd heard used towards him a million times. The voice used to soothe a spooked animal. "We're here for you if you need anything."

"Master will find all books on Drackens near his favorite chair," Kreacher added.

Harry nodded and made a swift exit.

True to the elf's word, Harry found a stack of five books next to his preferred reading chair. There was also yet another cup of honey tea, still steaming, a plate of ginger newts, and the footrest had returned to the perfect distance from where he'd kicked it away in his sleepy struggles escaping the comfy throne last night. Harry briefly wondered if it would be more like paradise or prison should Kreacher and Dobby ever meet. They'd probably try and brush his teeth for him.

Harry hefted more than he would like to admit to lift the first book. It was obscenely thick and unadorned. The title stated in simple block letters The Comprehensive Guide to Creatures, Beasts, and Beings by Mr. Tachs A. Durmist.

"This looks promising," Harry muttered as he cracked it open and began his search.

Unfortunately, the book didn't seem to be sorted alphabetically, but according to the author's whim. As Harry skimmed, looking for headings that started with 'D', he noted that Mr. Durmist was extremely thorough in his analysis of each species. He included everything from gestation time and preferred foods to written descriptions of their behavior in the wild and their significance to the magical world. Harry was more disturbed to discover tips on how to capture the creature in question and which organs could be harvested for use. He sincerely hoped those came from extensive research and not personal experience.

Finally, after three different sneezing fits from displaced dust, Harry found what he was looking for.

He spent a full minute staring at the illuminated heading, feeling lightheaded as all his blood rushed to other regions. A tall, broad-shouldered man, muscled like a statue of a lost god of masculinity, stood tall and proud. Spread wide behind him were wings of ruby red, giving him the look of some angel of death and blood. Long, bulging arms stretched out to hold the shoulder and hip of a woman. Not just any woman. This was the archetype that every woman strived to become, spent hours starving or training or nitpicking in front of a mirror to imitate. Long, flowing locks that looked like a waterfall of silk; firm, whole breasts like two teardrops of the goddess of fertility; lithe limbs that teased you with the power to wrap around you and hold you forever in her grasp; hips that called out for a hand to cradle them and declared her childbearing prowess to the world. Her legs held her up even as she bent forward at the waist. Her own wings were white as a cloud, touched here and there with the same scarlet of her mate, curled in on herself as if to show her subservience. Her mouth, tempting even with four deadly fangs, was open with a silent scream as her sex was invaded by an unyielding conqueror.

Naturally, since it was a wizarding picture, it was moving.

Harry finally managed to tear his eyes away from the unexpected porn to read what he was actually there for.

 _THE DRACKEN_

 _It would not greatly distort the truth to simply describe Drackens as humanoid dragons. They share many of the same characteristics: scales, the ability of flight via wings, vanity, possessiveness, resistance to magic and disease, an estral cycle, and general aggressiveness towards all but their mates and young. However, they also appear to retain all the intelligence of their human selves prior to their inheritance at the age of 16, except in bouts of ferity. Considering this and other irregularities, until further study suggests otherwise, we shall consider them their own distinct creature of no relation to Draconis Westernis or its various subspecies._

 _All Drackens are capable of hiding their natural features. The mechanism behind this is believed to be magical, as it appears subject to each Dracken's individual willpower. Almost every documented case of a Dracken discovery involved the creature being in a state of high emotion prior to being revealed. Whether this is a native ability or bred in after generations of hiding from poachers and government condemnation requires further examination._

 _All Drackens can be classified into one of two groups: Dominant and Submissive._

 _Dominant Drackens are predominantly male, although female Dominants are not unheard of. The scales of a Dominant are usually distinctly_ _coloured_ _, and cover roughly half of his body. The claws are on average two inches in length and razor-sharp. The average wingspan of a Dominant is estimated at twenty-five feet. Wing length and_ _colour_ _is believed to be an important factor in attracting a Submissive as a mate._

 _The role of Dominant seems to be that of hunter, enforcer of discipline, and shield. Their large size and formidable strength allows them to ward off other Dominants and predators, as well as provide fresh meat for their mate and chicks. They cannot afford to reveal any weakness, as this could lead others to challenge them and thus compromise the safety of their Submissive and offspring. This often gives Dominants a distant, if not outright hostile demeanor. Dominants are known to punish their Submissive for what they see as bad behavior, in order to ensure they be the best possible mate and mother to their young. Each Dominant seems to have their own individual style of punishment, born of instinct. Known methods include spanking, pinching, hair-pulling, and joint-locks. In situations where a Dominant must choose between their own survival and protecting their Submissive and/or children, they always choose the latter. The Dominant's sole purpose in life appears to be to secure a mate, produce children (known as 'chicks'), and ensure the survival of both. This has been confirmed by interviews with actual Dominant Drackens under Veritaserum (see Appendix C)_

 _Submissive Drackens are the natural counterpart to the Dominant Dracken. Most are female, although male Submissives are more common than female Dominants. Submissive Dracken scales are white at the time of inheritance, covering over three-quarters of her body. However, over time, they will change color to reflect those of her mate or mates. Her claws are only an inch in length, but are actually more deadly than those of her Dominant. Under duress, her nailbeds will secrete a toxin to coat her claws, often with fatal results. Each Submissive's toxin is unique; some have an acid that can eat through a man in under a minute, others a neurotoxin so deadly that a single drop can prove lethal. The largest recorded Submissive wingspan was fourteen feet, but this should be considered an outlier._

 _As the greatest urge of the Dracken seems to be to procreate, it should come as no surprise that Submissive Drackens spend most of their time pregnant or taking care of their chicks. Curiously, each Submissive Dracken is born with a magical blockage covering her uterus or his sac, so this takes more effort than most species require. Submissive Drackens often require multiple Dominants as mates to function. One or two to absorb the magic behind the blockage in order to become pregnant, and another to ground the Submissive's natural magic. Submissives that fail to gain a 'grounding' mate often go insane within a few years of their inheritance, killing their own young and/or their mates, before coming to their senses and usually committing suicide. It is rare that a Dominant is strong enough or a Submissive weak enough that only one Dominant mate is required._

 _Submissives are closely treasured by their Dominants. Some Dominants are so jealous that they will not allow their Submissives to leave their dwelling or others to see them. Submissives spend all their time caring for the chicks and seeing to the needs of her Dominant(s). It is considered proper behavior for the Dominant in turn to see to the needs of his Submissive, but cases of abusive Dominants have been discovered._

 _Submissives become pregnant while on heat. The length of the heat cycle is unique to each Submissive, and is divided into four parts. The first three parts are primarily dietary, starting with a focus on meats, shifting to grains and then to fruits and vegetables. It is believed the meat is for protein to build up the uterus/sac for potential chicks, the grains for staying power during the actual mating, and the fruits for energy and nutrients. The heat culminates in a 10-day period of almost constant sex. During this time, the Submissive's core temperature will raise to 110 degrees Fahrenheit to facilitate conception, another similarity with dragons. She will also release pheromones to ensure her Dominant(s) is in a constant state of arousal, again maximizing the chances of conception._

 _The full length of a Dracken pregnancy is seven months. Throughout the pregnancy, the Submissive will feed on the Dominant(s) blood, saliva, sweat, and semen to support the growing chicks, generally obtained during intercourse. Common symptoms of pregnancy are tiredness, irritability, nausea, dizziness, food cravings, and magical outbursts. At some point during this time, the Submissive will get nesting urges. She will look for the place to give birth to her chick(s), generally somewhere high up, with a good view of the surroundings and safe from perceived predators. Once a location is decided upon, she will gather items to cushion the area, usually marked with her Dominant(s)'s scent. She will keep her nest a secret while building it, considering it at risk until it is complete. Only when it is finished will she reveal it to her Dominant(s) and family. Sometime between the completion of the nest and the due date, she will turn feral and retreat to the nest. She will spend her time preening, preparing for the birth, and become unable to recognize even her own mates. Difficulties feeding nesting Submissives are often reported. The birth for a female Submissive will proceed much as it would for a human. For a male Submissive, he must essentially give himself a caesarean. He will use his claws to tear through his sac, extract his chick(s) and their placenta(s), and then close the wound. This is commonly achieved by drinking a pre-prepared bottle of his Dominant(s) blood. Dracken blood has mild healing properties, which are amplified by the mating bond. While the first pregnancy for a Submissive is always a singleton, average Dracken pregnancies are two to three children. The most chicks a female ever carried to term was seven and a male five._

 _Every species seems to feel the need for the mate, but the Drackens appear to feel it more so than anyone. Dominant Drackens compete aggressively amongst each other for the attention of Submissives. In the past, this was a literal competition. In recent years, however, this takes the form of courtship meetings where Dominants gather when a Submissive announces her inheritance and chooses whom among them she will take as her mates. Dominants are always searching for a Submissive. The longer they go without one, the more desperate they become. This desperation can yield to madness given enough time. Unmated Dominants over the age of sixty often have to be put down by their families. There is only one documented case of an unmated Submissive, since Dominants fight so strongly for them and Submissives long so strongly for children. The circumstances were unusual, in that the Submissive's Dominant uncle locked her in the attic, deciding that he would have her once his own mate died. As his mate of the time was of perfect health, the mental health of the uncle should be called into question. It is undetermined whether it was due to her unmated status or own suicide attempt, but within eight months the entire house went up in a massive explosion, as the Submissive's magical core collapsed in on itself._

 _Whenever the Submissive feels they are in danger, she will let out a distress call. To human ears, this resembles a loud screech. Any Dominant Dracken that hears a distress call will come running, but the mate(s) of the Submissive in question will tear through walls if necessary. They will most likely be partially feral when they arrive, so anyone in the proximity of the Submissive should take caution, for they will be assumed to be the threat until the Submissive corrects them, which may happen too late. Even if the Submissive is out of earshot of her Dominant(s), they will still feel the vibration of it in their skull. A Dominant will not rest until he finds his Submissive, even if he must fly halfway across the world to do so._

 _Drackens as a whole can be considered nonviolent, except when they or their families are threatened. It should be noted that internal disputes are often dealt with via execution. However, due to their volatile instincts and the violent nature of the episodes when they do lose control, they have been classified as Dark creatures by the American, British, European, and Asian governments since the 1840's. Notable exceptions include South Africa and Australia, which have thriving Dracken communities._

 _The Dracken community, forced into hiding and more and more made to integrate into general society in secret, has tried to abandon many of their natural instincts. Veritaserum interviews indicate a form of pseudo-government, the Dracken Counsel. All inquiries, however, are met with silence or, upon further pressure, magically-induced seizures. Use of vows of secrecy are suspected_

 _Drackens are only identifiable as such within an hour of birth, or when they have their features on show. They age at the same rate as humans, though have a tendency to hit developmental milestones sooner. Like most bipedal creatures capable of interbreeding with humanity, they come into an inheritance on their sixteenth birthday. From that day forward, they appear to age at half the rate of humans. An active 80-year old Dracken displays the same fitness and physical appearance of a 40-year old wizard, even accounting for the Dracken's greater strength and hardiness. Maturity levels appear to fluctuate with the same uncertainty as human adults. Average lifespan with good diet and exercise is 300 years, with no discernable difference between Dominants and Submissives._

 _Drackens are never more vulnerable than when they are on heat. The power of the Submissive's pheromones and the instinct to conceive are such that a war could be going on around them and they would not notice. As their scales block all but the most extreme spells and their claws can tear through most ropes, the best way to capture one is to use either the Suffocation Curse (also known as the Reverse Bubblehead Charm) or use of the Sleeping Draught, either orally or in gaseous form. Containment should use either titanium, top-quality steel reinforced with wards, or Goblin-wrought silver. An extreme example of ensuring no chance of escape includes use of an iron maiden made to the exact specifications of a Dracken kidnapped at the age of 4, charmed to grow with the child, fed and watered via a tube._

 _Dracken scales are some of the most sought after ingredients in the potions world. Body scales are packed too tightly to extract neatly and are too small to use to be considered worth the effort, so wing scales are the most preferred. There is no known process to make a Dracken corpse reveal its features, so scales must usually be harvested from a live source. As most Drackens are captured as children, most poachers unwilling to risk the wrath of a full-grown Dracken, and as a Dracken's wings are never more sensitive than in the first year of his or her life, this is often a violent process. Ethical apothecaries will first euthanize the Dracken, but some claim this causes the scales to lose luster and thus potency, and thus insist the scales be 'fresh'. The extraction process is achieved by first staking down the Dracken's wings through the wing joints, to prevent their retraction. Then the harvester shall place a chisel into the edge of a wing scale, before applying a surge of force to lift it from its bed. Due to the large amount of blood vessels in the wings, there is a large chance of exsanguination before each scale is removed. Some will force the Dracken to drink Blood Replenishers through the screams, while others are content to let some scales go dull in order to stop the ringing in their ears, assuming they did not use a Silencing Spell. At the time of writing, a single Dracken scale sold for sixteen Galleons. However, there is some debate whether different colors affect different potions differently, due to the chemicals that make up the pigments, so prices may vary._

 _Poaching has always kept the Dracken population lower than it could have been. Since being classified as illegal creatures in most of the world, more and more Drackens have taken to mating with humans in order to blend in, diluting the bloodline and making it less and less likely that new Drackens will be born each new generation._ Note: while Dominant Drackens can mate with humans with no ill-effects, a Submissive cannot. Any sexual contact with anyone but a Dominant, willing or otherwise, will cause the uterus/sac to self-destruct and render the Submissive barren. _The rarity of Drackens, ironically, increased the demand for them on the black market, creating a vicious cycle. As of 1978, there are an estimated 2000 Drackens globally, with a Dominant-Submissive ratio of 18-1, and an average age of 46._

 _Trivia:_

 _Drackens are allergic to salt water. Prolonged exposure can have serious side-effects, including constriction of the throat and tongue, and swelling of the optic nerve_

 _Drackens cannot tolerate extreme cold. A drop of core temperature below 94 degrees Fahrenheit will induce a state of shock that can be life-threatening. Perhaps this is why Dracken scales conduct heat across the body._

 _It is unknown how a female Dominant and female Submissive conceive, or if it is indeed possible._

 _No matter how many chicks a Dominant and Submissive have, there is no guarantee that any one of them will be a Dracken._

Harry had read the whole thing with a mixture of fascination and horror, leaning more and more towards the latter the further he got. When he read what they did to that poor 4-year old, he was almost sick on the book. Who? Who could do such a thing and sleep at night? So what if you didn't even see them as human? Harry couldn't even think of hurting an Acromantula. Sure, they were big and hairy and probably wanted to eat him, but they were alive just like him! The only possible exceptions he'd make were for cockroaches and Blast-Ended Skrewts, and those could just be thrown in a dark hole somewhere and keep to themselves.

Harry shook his head. 'That's what makes you a good person, Harry. No matter how bad things get, you can always say you wouldn't torture someone to death for a handful of gold.'

It was a sad commentary in and of itself that that thought cheered the boy up.

Harry shut the book and tried to settle everything he just read in his head. He didn't think he had to read the other books, that had been damn informative, but he would just to make sure. He just had to make his peace with what Mother Nature had decreed to be his purpose in life.

"I'm a Submissive Dracken," Harry said, tasting the words. "I'll need to find at least two Dominant mates, lest I go insane or explode. I'll have children with those mates, who may or may not be Drackens too. My Dominants will be as good as my Husbands or Wives. They may or may not be violent, possessive, jealous, controlling, domineering, and/or think of me like a 50's housewife, but will most definitely wear me ragged for ten days straight every yet-to-be-determined interval."

Harry slammed his head down on the book.

"There are times," he growled to the empty room. "Quite often, actually. When I just _hate_ my life."

* * *

Harry read through lunch, brought to him by a placid Kreacher. Most of the books seemed to just parrot back bits and pieces of the first book. Some went into a bit more detail on one bit or another, but so far it had in fact lived up to its title as 'comprehensive'. The methods the author or his sources had employed to obtain said comprehensive info were less than sterling, but still. The last book was almost laughable. Harry recognized it as a book on creatures Hagrid had gotten him his last birthday. It portrayed all Dominants as cold and vicious without going into the reasons behind why, and was chock full of tripe like "the most common time for a Dracken to become pregnant is in the winter." Each cycle was different! If there was any 'common' time, it was sheer coincidence. And if what Harry had read in book four about artificial heats was true, than it was really the summertime. It was a load of tripe. When Harry checked the copyright page and saw it was published directly by the Ministry, he understood.

Harry felt that was enough for one day and retreated to his room and spent the rest of the day writing thank-you letters for all the wonderful presents. He paid special attention to Luna's. He was half-tempted to write to Mrs. Weasley and tell her what her daughter had access to, but decided he didn't want to burn that bridge just yet. Hell, if he ended up chained to a bed by a bunch of pedantic arseholes, he might just need Ginny and her naughty bag of gifts. And if they turned out to be angels sent from heaven to tend to his every need, then he'd also need her to properly thank them for their service. So instead he wrote her a note telling her he appreciated the thought but if he ever wanted that kind of 'stuff' that he'd ask, she wasn't to just hand it over out of the blue.

A small part of him wondered just where she'd found a dildo the exact shade as his eyes.

There was indeed a cake, if a small one, and a half-hearted chorus of 'Happy Birthday' from Remus and Kreacher. It was unclear who was more uncomfortable: the werewolf and elf for having to work together, or Harry for being the centre of attention. He took a second to think about his wish, before he gave a puff and watched as Kreacher began to cut, the magic of the candles extinguished.

"So? What did you wish for?" Remus asked.

"If I tell you, it won't come true," Harry protested.

Kreacher, who also wanted to know, got a wicked gleam. "Perhaps Master be telling Kreacher. Elves don't count. And if he be saying it loud enough for werewolf to hear, that just be good hearing."

"Don't say that, Kreacher. Of course you count!" Harry frowned.

"You know, Harry, if you just tell us, we might be able to help make it happen," Remus wheedled, trying another tack.

Harry sighed. "It's not the kind of thing anyone can help with. It's up to the Fates. And if the past is any indication, they've really got it in for me, so maybe I just wasted a wish."

Kreacher banged his hand on the table. "Master Harry will stop speaking ill of himself. Master has done a great thing in defeating the Dark Lord. More importantly, Master Harry is a good man. The gods should be making up for lost time in regards to the young master post-haste in Kreacher's opinion."

Remus nodded. "Well said, Kreacher." The worn-out man reached out a hand to cover that of the boy he'd known when he was a baby he'd bounced on his knee. "Harry, please just tell us. I want to help you. Kreacher wants to help you. You're not in this alone, you know."

Harry gulped. Unbidden, tears ran down his cheeks. How had things gotten here? This was turning into a really crappy birthday.

"I wished that I would have a good family," he whispered. "I wished that I'd find kind people to be my mates. I wished that we'd have healthy children. I wished that I could finally be happy. Is that what you wanted to hear? I made a sappy, wishy-washy, pathetic wish like that."

Remus got up, pulled Harry into his arms, and cradled him to the ground. He rocked him back and forth, shushing him as the tears started to really pour out, offering comfort and warmth as Harry let out all the emotions he'd bottled up over the course of the day. The fear of discovering he wasn't human, the wonder of his new form, the stress of not knowing, the horror at learning, the overwhelming joy at his gifts, the bitter ache at those that hadn't been there, the embarrassment, the dread, the anticipation, all of it came flowing out.

When there was nothing left, Harry lay there, feeling weak as a limp rag.

It was only then that Remus spoke up.

"I want those things too," he said. "I think everyone does, even if they won't admit it. Someone to call their own. To open up their soul to. To share every moment with, the good and bad, the sour and the sweet. To create a new life, something totally your own. To have something to love unconditionally, to cherish and care for and watch grow. I want it so bad it hurts." Remus chuckled dryly. "My… condition makes that a bit difficult. But with you, Harry, you're going to have people lining up to give it to you."

"That's almost as bad as your situation, though," Harry managed. "All those people… how am I going to manage to connect with any of them? I'll be picking strangers. With you, anyone that wants to be with you after they find out must really be the real thing. You have a built-in screening process. Me, I'll be spending every second worrying I'll make a mistake and end up chained to a bastard that succeeded at acting nice for five minutes."

Remus stiffened. "Huh."

Harry, sensing dirt, pulled back. "Wait. Is someone interested in you?"

The werewolf couldn't manage to look Harry in the eye. "There… might be a young woman who has made her… interest in me known. I've turned her down because I don't think she realizes the full scale of the consequences of being with me. But she hasn't given up."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Are you kidding me? You spend weeks lecturing me on not putting myself down and the whole time you've been blowing off someone because of your hairy little problem?"

Remus fiddled with his collar. "She's also a great deal younger than me. I mean, she and you were at Hogwarts together, Harry!" 'She was in her seventh year when you were a firstie, but it's still technically true' he thought.

"Is she legal?"

"Well, yes…"

"Then take it from someone who's had more than enough experience dealing with adults who think they know what's best for them," Harry declared. "Do. Not. Decide. _For_. Her. Whoever she is, she's capable of making her own decisions. If you're going to deny her, at least do it because you don't like her back, not because you think you're doing her a favor."

"I can't believe I'm getting relationship advice from a sixteen year old," Remus muttered.

Harry got a sly grin on his face. "Think of it this way, Moony. How do you think my mother will react in the afterlife when she finds out that I had kids before you did?"

Lupin's face went as pale as the moon he so feared. "You know what? Maybe I'll floo-call her and set up a date. I'm not getting any younger. It's time I settled down."

Harry laughed all the way to bed.

Harry spent most of the next day experimenting with switching between his forms. He didn't feel like he had enough adult saved up in him to face Gringotts just yet, he'd do that tomorrow. So the day was spent in his room or wandering the house, having wings sprout out of his back or scales recede into his skin or fangs slide out of his gums. He needed to be sure that his Dracken wouldn't just pop out in the middle of a crowd, and the best way to gain control of any 'muscle' was to exercise it.

If Harry was honest with himself, he regretted how few mirrors there were at 12 Grimmauld Place. He'd never been a vain person, but his Dracken had other ideas. It wasn't so much that it was a separate personality, per se. It was more like Harry's mind had been opened up, and parts of him that he'd never known he'd had were suddenly in play. Harry had once heard someone say that the human brain was divided into into the lizard brain, monkey brain, and the higher brain. The higher brain covered stuff like art, philosophy and other abstract, complex concepts. The monkey brain was basic social interaction, living day-to-day. And the lizard brain was pure survival: eating, breathing, reproduction. If that was true, then Harry would say his Dracken was nesting in the hollow between his lizard and monkey brain. It kept a running commentary at the back of his brain, murmuring that all they needed was a full belly, the freedom to fly, and a strong mate to give them chicks. And the way to get a mate was to look their best, and that shouldn't be hard, they were stunning. Just imagine how much more beautiful they would look rounded with a clutch of chicks…

It was as that last thought ran through his head that Harry came to his senses and found himself cradling his flat stomach in the middle of a hallway. Feeling like there wasn't enough _air_ in the air he was breathing, he forced the Dracken back inside and ran through the house, following his nose until he slammed into the deceptively solid warmth of Remus.

"Harry? What is it? What's wrong?" he asked, keeping his voice level, but his worry clear. Harry sobbed. Remus always knew how to handle him. Panicking with him would set him off, but acting blasé would make him feel worse. The perfect balance, every time. Was this what if felt like to have a parent, someone dependable, always there to comfort you? That thought made Harry feel worse. He thought he'd made his peace with his orphan baggage.

"Everything," Harry bit out when he realized Remus was waiting for an answer. "I wanted to be normal, Moony. That's all I wanted. Just for a little while. I wanted a break from the craziness. And now I'm some rare illegal magical creature, and won't the Prophet just LOVE to get their hands on that little tidbit?! And I'm basically going to have to arrange my own marriage and start having kids right away because that's what Submissives are _supposed_ to do! And if I don't find enough Dominants fast enough, oh, I'll go round the bend and kill everyone I love, so isn't that a lovely incentive?! I mean, I always wanted a family one day, but now it's being forced on me, and I'm so _sick_ and _tired_ of having to do what's expected of me! And I'm going to get _pregnant_! I'm a bloke, that's just wrong, screw magic and creature anatomy. I mean, I'm bi, I don't really mind taking it up the arse, but am I going to be treated like some wench, cooking and cleaning and wiping the sprogs' faces and never having a moment to myself while the hubby's off having a pint with his mates?" Harry would have gone on, but he started to hyperventilate and that made it hard to talk.

Remus, calm in face of crisis, maneuvered Harry so that his head was between his knees. He instructed Harry to breathe as deeply as he could. It took five minutes, but Harry finally stopped feeling in danger of fainting. When he smelled that the adrenaline had left his charge's system, Remus decided to speak.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Harry. You have an ordeal ahead of you. Romance is terrifying at the best of times. And the way you have to do it, with a gun all but held to your head, it makes me want to bundle you up and just hide you away from your problems. But it doesn't work that way. The world doesn't adapt to our needs. We have to adapt to what the world asks of us."

Remus took a deep breath. "Last night, you gave me some good advice. Now it's my turn. You take it from someone that spent almost thirty years denying who he was. Don't. Trust me, it doesn't make things any easier. We are what we are. It's far better to just accept that and move on than to fight it every step of the way. You can't imagine how much happier I was when I just accepted the fact I was a werewolf."

Harry pulled back and gave a _very_ skeptical look. "This," Harry gestured up and down, at the still-shabby robes even after Sirius's gift and the face that was wrinkled at the tender age of 36, "is happy?"

Remus shrugged. "You should have seen me as a teenager. When I wasn't sitting morosely in a corner under my own personal dark cloud, I was lashing out at anyone that got within arm's reach, raging at the unfairness of the world. If it wasn't for your Dad and Sirius, I probably would have ended up in Azkaban or committing suicide by the time I was 20."

Harry felt like his heart had stopped. "Tell me you're joking." Harry couldn't bear the thought that anyone else he loved knew the pain he himself did. That hollow emptiness that weighed on every thought, convincing you that it truly would be easier to just end it all.

The werewolf shrugged, trying to make light of the situation. "It's all moot. The Marauders saved my life, and I'm happy to have known them. Except for Peter, may he rot in Azkaban." Remus looked at Harry to make sure he didn't take his comment too hard. He felt his hackles rise as he saw something familiar reflected in the eyes of the boy as good as his son, and he didn't like it. "Harry…"

The Saviour quickly jumped to his feet. "Wow that was a good talk. I'm feeling much better. I think I'm going to check on Hedwig. Good night, Moony!" It was barely 7:00 p.m.

Remus watched Harry beat a hasty retreat with narrow eyes. It wasn't possible. Was it? The boy _had_ been through a great deal, fighting for his life each year since he'd been eleven. Remus could think of grown wizards that would crack under that kind of pressure, let alone a child dealing with schoolwork and the tumultuous changes of adolescence. And then there was the night they'd retrieved Harry from his relatives' house after the Dementor attack. He'd cracked an awful lot of jokes about them being upset Harry _not_ being in danger. And Tonks had mentioned that his room had been locked from the outside, in between her rants about the unnatural cleanliness…

Harry hoped Remus wouldn't read too deeply into that little moment. Other than that single outburst in the Hospital Wing and the discussion of the aftermath, Harry had kept any hint of his 'situation' with the Dursley's mum. He knew Ron and Fred and George might have some clue, but they'd been young and too high on the sense of adventure to really understand how unusual it was to keep a 12-year old locked in his room and all his stuff hidden away. When he hadn't mentioned it again, it had probably faded from their minds.

Harry closed the door to the attic behind him, breathing in the scent of hippogriff that refused to be aired out. With the arrest of Lucius and the news that Draco would not be taking Care of Magical Creatures for an N.E.W.T., Dumbledore and Harry had agreed it safe to reunite Buckbeak and Hagrid after the death of Sirius. Renamed Witherwings, the eagle-horse had been moved out shortly after Harry had moved in, Hedwig taking his place as master of the attic.

Harry smiled as he went to brush those snowy feathers. She'd managed to carry the huge bundle of replies to Ottery St. Catchpole overnight, returning that morning. Mrs. Weasley would forward the letters, as she had over the past month. She assured him it was no trouble and it was easier and she didn't want to exhaust poor Hedwig. Harry just hoped she wasn't using Errol. Fred and George should be bringing in enough extra money that they could afford a new owl. Unless she and Mr. Weasley were too proud to accept money from their children. Maybe Harry would look into untraceable deposits during his meeting with his family accountant tomorrow.

Hedwig allowed him to groom her for a bit before nipping his fingers and flying off to another corner of the attic. Harry chuckled. That was Hedwig. She'd take love and affection, but she made it clear she was no kept lady. Everything was on her terms. He only hoped he could follow her example. Sure, he could run headlong into a duel with wand and head held high, cool as a cucumber. But it took him a month and catching her alone to have the courage to ask Cho to the Yule Ball. Harry was simply clueless when it came to relationships. That was part of why he was so afraid he'd mess up and mate a loser or monster; he had zero experience. And he couldn't get any, unless he wanted to render himself sterile.

Harry carefully modulated his breathing as he felt the panic rise up as it had earlier. When he felt it sink down again, he repeated what Remus had told him to himself. "It's better to accept it. Play the cards you're dealt. No amount of whining or self-pity will change the fact you're a Dracken." Harry scoffed. "Good God, Potter, you offed Voldemort! Courting should be a walk in the park."

Hedwig gave a soft "Hoot." Which might have meant "Don't talk to yourself, Provider-of-Bacon". Or could have been "Shall I have mice or frogs tonight?" The world shall never know.

Deciding to strike while the iron was hot, Harry made his move. "Kreacher," he called. As the elf popped next to him, he listed his needs, still feeling like he was being rude somehow. "May I have a pen, some parchment, a book to write on, and an envelope please?"

"Yes, Master Harry," the elf confirmed, clicking his fingers and summoning the items. Harry still had no idea why elf summoning worked differently from wand summoning. 'Accio' pulled things through the air towards the caster, basically acting like a specifically-tuned magnet. Elves made things pop out of thin air the same way they themselves did. Had anyone tried to recreate that with a wand, or did they use fundamentally different mechanisms? Hermione would know. Harry tried to brush away the automatic gloom that thought brought. She'd made her choice.

Harry clicked his pen and went to work. One of the first things he'd done upon moving in was throw out all his quill pens and buy muggle stock. Honestly, the reason his essays were so poor half the time was because it took so long just to write legibly with the finicky feathers, so he had to rush it. Even though it had been years since he'd held one, a retractable stylus felt so much more at home in his hands.

' _To Whom It May Concern,_ ' he began.

' _I have recently come into a creature inheritance. Based on the word of a close family friend with experience with Drackens and all information I can glean from available creature texts, I believe that I am a Submissive Dracken. As I understand it, it is important for my own sanity and the dwindling population of this new species I find myself a part of that I find Dominant mates and start producing chicks as soon as possible. Naturally, at only sixteen years of age and having no prior warning to this, I am apprehensive to pursue this course of action. I also admit I have little to no idea how I would find a suitable mate or the exact process necessary to form a bond. For these reasons, I ask that I be contacted by some form of representative capable of explaining the details of my situation in full and guiding me through the process of acquiring my mates._

 _To guarantee that I am who I say I am and not some poacher hoping to draw you out with some elaborate hoax, enclosed is one of my scales. I hope that my request does not cause undue stress on your resources or distract from your priorities. While I hope you respond promptly, do not feel that you must drop everything. I hope this letter finds you well.'_

 _\- HJP_

Harry looked it over. He'd tried to cover his uncertainty with formality, falling back on every lesson he'd picked up from Greengrass. He'd been sure to give himself the lower hand, so that whoever got this would be more likely to actually help him. He'd also tried to keep it as vague as possible, in case it was intercepted. He didn't mention where he was located, his initials weren't that special, and every inheritance came at 16 so that was nothing. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best Harry could manage while he had his nerve.

Harry set the letter down and rolled up his sleeve. Seeing if his day had been productive at all, he tried to only call up only the scales on his left arm. To his surprise, he was successful. He could feel the rest all over his body strain to come out like an itch, but just his arm became sheathed in pale protection that glimmered even in the scant sunset light. Feeling like he was trying to look left and right at once, Harry also called for his right hand's claws. His wings flexed beneath the skin, but again it worked. With extreme care, hoping he didn't accidentally gore himself, Harry tried to fit the edge of his claw into the edge of a tiny scale.

It felt like trying to thread a needle, but Harry eventually felt his claw 'catch' on the invisible join. Applying just a bit more pressure, but not enough so he dug into the soft tissue of his arm, Harry curled back and dug the scale out of its setting. It was surprisingly painful, and Harry sucked on the bleeding wound once the scale was placed on the floor. When he pulled back, it was already scabbing.

"Huh. Well, if Dracken blood is healing, then logically my own has a bit of a kick, running through me all the time. Guess I'll heal a bit faster than I used to." Filing that away under "Freaky Dracken Stuff to Get Used to", Harry tucked the scale into the letter as he folded it into the envelope. He walked over to Hedwig, looking her in the eye to get her attention.

"Hedwig, I need this to get to the Dracken Counsel. I don't know who they are, where they are, or what protections are around them. This might be dangerous for you, girl. But it's very important that it gets to them. They can help me with who I am now. Can you do this for me, girl? You don't have to if you don't want to."

Hedwig seemed offended at the very idea that she wouldn't step up to the challenge. She flew over to his shoulder, her wings beating him about the head as she did so, and pointedly stuck out her leg. Harry hid a grin as he tied the letter. Worked every time.

Harry watched her fly off into the night, feeling as if some weight had fallen off his shoulders only to sink into his stomach. The missile was in the air. Nothing to do but wait.

If history has proven anything, it's that Harry and waiting don't mix well.

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 **So, I had a little freak out when I got a note from the moderators that I needed permission to do a Dracken story. And then I tore my vocal chords screaming when StarLight herself emailed me personally to hash things out. But now everything's settled, and the future for this fic looks bright.**

 **The actual sex won't come for a while, but certain teasers will start as soon as next chapter, and keep in mind that side characters will get turns in the spotlight as well. As always, you all can let me know what you think in reviews. Yes, I actually read them. Check back for updates, I plan to churn them out regularly!**

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 **Yes, yes, I know the drill, all MA parts will be restricted to AFF, but the clean versions can still be posted here, which provides the benefit of the alert system. We got it, admins, we remember the purge. And we will never forget.**


	3. Gringotts

**Hello, all. No, I'm not abandoning this story. I just hadn't updated my other story in forever and I was making up for lost time. But now I feel in a good enough spot that I can start alternating which chapter I'm writing.**

 **I hope everyone can find something to like about this fic. Of course, I accept that I can't please everyone. My own bisexuality, which I'm giving to Harry, is one of those things that seem to polarize people. People seem to be okay with a character sleeping with EVERY girl or EVERY guy, but a guy AND a girl just squicks them out for some reason. That's okay, to each their own. But, again, just to be perfectly clear, this is a BISEXUAL fic. Harry will have a female Dominant. She will sex him up just as thoroughly as his male mates will. If you can't stomach that, feel free to leave.**

 **So, here's the chapter. Beginning with a special treat (edited from version, sorry)**

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Harry woke with a gasp. His breath shuddered as he tried to regain it. His face was wet, whether from sweat or tears he couldn't tell. He moved around in his sheets and realized he was wet down THERE too. His cheeks burned in shame even as his heart raced with anxiety.

Well, that wasn't a very nice way to start the day. The beginning had been nice, but the ending was his worst fear. Literally. Harry tried to recall the exact details of the dream, even as they slipped from his mind like water from a sieve. The monster that had his baby had been some awful blend of Voldemort and Vernon. Harry sternly reminded himself that Voldemort was dead and gone, by his own hand no less, and he would probably never see Vernon Dursley ever again. His body wound down from the panic it had worked itself into as he kept repeating those two facts to himself.

When Harry was at last calm, he tried to recall some of the, er, saucier parts of his dream before it had morphed into a nightmare. But alas, they'd sunk back into his subconscious. All he was left with was the vague impression that maybe his heats wouldn't be QUITE the torture he'd imagined they would be.

Harry again was reminded of the 'mess' he'd made and blushed. Well, at least he didn't sleep naked. He'd only have to change pajamas, not the sheets.

Harry had showered and dressed by the time Kreacher arrived with his usual tray. The elf seemed put out that his master had risen without first being fueled for the day, but he still made due by placing it at the small desk that had been moved in. Harry ate every bite under the scrutiny of his servant, feeling faintly amused. He remembered an idle thought from two days earlier, and expounded on it. If Kreacher, Dobby, AND Mrs. Weasley ever teamed up, he'd probably turn into a pudding. A very, very pampered pudding.

Harry checked his appearance in the mirror later, making sure not the slightest hint of his Dracken features were showing. He narrowed his eyes at the lightning bolt on his forehead. That was the only scar that hadn't vanished with his inheritance. To be fair, a scar from the Killing Curse was unprecedented and unknown territory, but it still bugged him that his Dracken hadn't gotten rid of it along with everything else. He was supposed to be unblemished, the better to appeal to potential mates! Then Harry realized he was mad due to his newly awakened vanity instincts and promptly swept them aside. He couldn't care less about looks. If his mates couldn't handle a tiny little scar, they didn't deserve to be his mates in the first place.

Today was the day he was meeting his account manager at Gringotts, and Harry was nervous. His only interactions with Goblins had been that first, awkward meeting with Hagrid, and then only one-sided instructions to the cart-handlers to take him to his vault. He was about to have a prolonged conversation with one, and he had no idea how to behave. Should he be confident and commanding? It WAS his money, after all. Meek and humble? Or would the goblin see that as weakness? From what little Harry remembered from History of Magic, goblins were a very warlike people. Hell, he'd just go in polite and adapt on the fly.

Harry clung tightly to Remus as he apparated to the little courtyard behind the Leaky Cauldron. He _definitely_ preferred broomsticks, or even Floo travel. Still better than portkeys, but then maybe Harry was biased. Harry made a mental note to look into the process of getting an Apparition License. Maybe it wasn't quite so unpleasant when you were the driver instead of a passenger.

Harry resisted the urge to huddle into Moony's side like a small child as they walked down the Alley. This was the first time he'd been in Wizarding public since everything had happened. The award ceremony hadn't counted, that was all Ministry brass. These were normal Wizards and Witches. Harry didn't know whether to keep a look out for a riot of fans or an angry mob. The Prophet had been singing his praises for over a month, but they were just parroting a Ministry desperately trying to rebuild some of the bridges they'd burned over the last year. Harry had no idea how the general public viewed him. Was he a subject of even more hero worship now? Or were they like the students of Hogwarts, both disapproving and distant?

Luckily, Diagon Alley was all but deserted this early in the morning. Even in the summer, when families flocked to do their school shopping, 8:00 was pushing it. Harry and Remus made it to Gringotts with no issue. The door-goblins watched them stoically as they entered.

Remus went to the side and settled into a chair. Harry gulped. Protocol stated that private meetings with accountants could only have the owners of said accounts present. He'd have to do this on his own. Well, he was legally a man now, wasn't he? He was a Gryffindor, wasn't he? He could handle a one-on-one talk with a goblin. Or so he told himself.

Harry tried to keep his hesitance in check as he walked up to the closest teller. He had the mad thought that this might be taken as preference, since every one of them was open, but then he told himself to get a grip.

The goblin behind the counter regarded him with remote eyes. "Yes?" it asked gruffly. Harry couldn't have said whether it was male or female for the life of him.

"I received a letter that my family accountant wished to meet with me," Harry said.

"Name?" it asked.

For some reason, that total lack of acknowledgment, as if he were just another faceless customer and not THE Harry Potter, calmed him down. "Harry Potter."

The goblin turned and said something in incomprehensible Gobbledegook to another goblin standing at attention behind the counter, who turned and walked away with efficient speed. Harry wondered how the hierarchy of the goblins worked. Were the tellers in a position of honor, or was it a punishment to be made to deal with unreasonable humans all day long? The goblin returned before Harry started to feel really awkward just standing there and said something to the teller. The teller nodded and turned to Harry. "Your accountant is ready for you. Follow Griphook to his office."

Harry followed the diminutive creature into a warren of posh hallways almost as labyrinthine as the tunnels beneath them. Harry felt a distant bell ring as he looked at the goblin, before the name clicked.

"Oh, are you the goblin that took me to my vault for the first time?"

The goblin didn't pause in his steps, but he did turn his head a little to regard Harry with narrow eyes. "Yes. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I just remembered the name."

For some reason, that made the goblin look almost confused. But then he stopped and Harry realized they'd reached their destination, a black ebony door identical to all the ones next to it. Goblins apparently didn't waste gold on name plaques or other identifying markers. Was it a sign that the offices saw a lot of turnover, or were their memories just that good? Given how they navigated the tunnels like it was just a walk down the street, Harry was inclined to believe the latter.

"Go in. He's waiting for you." That said, Griphook turned and walked away.

With a steadying breath, Harry raised his hand to knock, before realizing that it was pointless if he was expected. Damn it, why hadn't he ever read a book on goblin culture? Though when would he have had the time for that, really? Until leaving Hogwarts, his life had been a whirlwind of homework, Quidditch, and preparing for whatever trial faced him that year.

'Get a grip, Potter,' he thought before opening the door.

The office was spartan, but what little furnishings there were spoke of obvious wealth. Two chairs, both leather-backed and richly carved. A mahogany desk, scaled for goblins but still quite intimidating. The floor was more of the marble that lavished the business section of Gringotts. A sort of bookcase made out of cubby-holes sat in the corner, rolls of parchment all but overflowing. And sitting behind the desk like a king in his throne surveying his kingdom was a goblin. The only distinguishing features Harry could make out was that his hair was white instead of the black he'd seen on others, and his nose was maybe a bit longer and sharper than most.

The goblin narrowed his eyes. "Mr. Potter. I am Warwick, manager of the Potter Family Vault. At last we meet."

Harry tried not to gulp. This goblin distinctly reminded him of McGonagall, with an air of constant stern disapproval and no-nonsense. Harry couldn't help but notice the stress Warwick had put on 'at last'. "I'm sorry, but I wasn't free to come until today. Should I have sent a reply to that notice you sent me?"

Warwick looked at him like he was a particularly dull troll. "No, but there should not have been the need for a notice. You have been emancipated and thus had access to these accounts for over a month now. And even before then, you made no attempt to contact me. Heirs may not gain access until reaching majority, but as the last living Potter you have sole control and thus should at least have consulted with me on a basic strategy regarding these funds until you gained access to them. Had your grandfather not stipulated the vault be frozen in the event of his son's death, it might well have been emptied from ongoing transactions by the point you inherited it. You should have contacted me sooner. The Potter Family Vault has existed since the founding of Gringotts, and I would rather not have had my honor and that of my house ruined by it going empty due to your lack of direction."

Harry felt an inch tall as the goblin berated him. He had the mad urge to call out for help, but his throat wasn't tensing the proper way. Realizing it might be a distress call, Harry suppressed the urge viciously. He didn't need to announce himself to every Dominant in earshot. He might end up mated to the first one that found him. Gathering himself, he replied to the accusation. "My apologies, Mr. Warwick. But I was not aware of the existence of my family vault until you sent me the notice. I thought the only money I had was in my trust vault, which I did not even know was a trust. I thought it was my inheritance from my parents."

The goblin's mouth thinned in a very familiar way. "Did your magical guardian not explain this to you?"

"Magical guardian?"

Warwick barred his pointy teeth. Harry wasn't sure if he were still upset with him or someone else now. "Each wizard has a magical guardian. Even Muggleborns have one assigned to them. They are meant to inform their charge of the workings of the magical world and handle any legal affairs until the child reaches maturity. You are saying you never met with yours?"

"I didn't know I had one. Who are they?" Harry felt sucker-punched. He had a guardian? Someone who was supposed to look out for him and explain this confusing world to him? Why hadn't they found him? Well, if it had been Sirius, that might explain it. His godfather had been in Azkaban most of his life, and when they had met, they didn't really discuss a life after Harry graduated. Voldemort had loomed over them like a specter.

The goblin picked up a sheet of parchment on his desk and scanned it. "According to your file, your magical guardian before your emancipation was listed as Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."

Harry felt his mouth curl into a grimace. That explained it. "Ah, I see. Unfortunately, Dumbledore has a bad habit of trying to shelter me. He probably didn't tell me because he didn't want me to worry about 'grown-up' things while I was still in school."

Warwick regarded him with scrutiny before finally nodding. "Very well." He seemed to frown, before saying "My apologies for what I said earlier. I was… wrong."

Harry got the sense that Warwick rarely had need to apologize. If he were a smaller person, he might try and rub it in. But if this guy was going to be handling his finances, presumably for a long time, then he ought to make sure their relationship was, if not positive, at least neutral. "No harm done. You didn't know. Shall we… get on with it?"

Warwick nodded. "Yes. This meeting is meant for you to outline your general plan on how to handle your family's gold, update the information based on any actions you've done which might have fiscal consequences, and answer any question you might have about your holdings. Which shall we do first?"

Harry tried to ignore the feeling that it should really be an ADULT doing this. Everyone had to start somewhere, right? It's not like age magically granted maturity and experience with the real world. "Can we start with a simple statement for any and all accounts I have? I would like to know exactly what I have."

"Very well." Warwick flicked his hand and a couple rolls of parchment shot out of the shelf to land on his desk. He smoothed them open and read them with quick, birdlike movements. He muttered to himself in Gobbledegook as he did, which sounded a bit like a screwdriver in a pencil sharpener. When he seemed to have it all in his head, Warwick looked up into Harry's eyes, his tone all business. "In terms of property, you own the Cottage at Godric's Hollow, which has been made into a memorial by the Ministry. Should you wish to sue for wrongful use of property, I can get you in touch with one of the barristers we have on retainer."

Harry gulped. Godric's Hollow. The place his parents had died. The place Voldemort had tried to kill him and wound up attaching a piece of his soul to him instead. "Let's leave it as is. I don't plan on staying there any time soon."

It was just a flicker, but Harry thought Warwick was disappointed. Maybe he'd been looking forward to getting some gold out of the Ministry. Given how they treated creatures in general, Harry couldn't blame him it that were the case. "Noted. In addition to the Cottage, you own a modest beach house in the French Riviera near Le Lavandou outside Toulon. And, of course, there is Potter Manor, located in Stinchcombe, Gloucestershire."

Harry felt his heart stop. Manor? He had a Manor? Remus said the Potters were old money, but seriously? Warwick paid no attention to the shell shocked look on his client's face. "Also, pursuant to the will of Sirius Black the Third, you own a townhouse here in London, though for some reason I can't recall the exact address." The shrewd look in the goblin's eyes told Harry that he knew EXACTLY why he couldn't remember.

Harry shrugged. "Home should be a safe haven, no?"

"Indeed. Now, as for your vaults. Your trust vault began with the standard 100,000 Galleons the Potter Family bestow to all heirs. Over the past five years, you have withdrawn 351 Galleons, 11 Sickles, and 26 Knuts, leaving your balance at 99,648 Galleons, 6 Sickles, and 3 Knuts. The vault of Sirius Black the Third, bequeathed to you in its entirety after all other endowments, stands at 409,000 Galleons, 12 Sickles."

Harry interrupted. "Before you go on, could you tell how much a Galleon is in pounds? Just so I have a frame of reference."

Warwick's eyes tightened, but gave no other sign he was annoyed. "Technically, one gold Galleon is valued at 5.12 GBP, but accounting for the conversion fee, it is actually 4.93, or 1 bronze Knut to a pence."

Harry did some quick mental math. He already had a couple million to his name, and he hadn't even heard his family's balance. It was mind-boggling. He'd grown up with hand-me-downs and the bare essentials (from neglect rather than poverty, but still), and now he was easily a member of the upper class. He didn't even know what he'd use all that money for. Kids couldn't be THAT expensive, right?

Warwick interrupted his musing. "As for the Potter Family Vault, which has been left untouched since October 31, 1981 and all existing lines of credit cancelled, it stands at exactly 238,000,000 Galleons, or 1,173,340,000 British pounds sterling."

Harry almost fell out of his chair.

"I'm… I'm a billionaire?" he asked, sure he'd misheard.

"In the Muggle world, yes. The only wizarding billionaires were Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel, and their fortune has since been split among their many descendants and various charitable organizations and trusts upon their deaths."

"Billion? With… with a 'b'?" Harry asked, still in disbelief.

Warwick narrowed his eyes. "The Potter family has patented several potions over the centuries. They have also earned a reputation as very clever investors and entrepreneurs. This has led to an accumulation of considerable assets. At present, the Potters are the second wealthiest family in Britain, and the ninth wealthiest in the world. You are here today to form a plan to ensure it stays that way, if not improves."

Harry nodded, still not all there. Over a billion pounds. Even accounting for the fact it was there for the entire family, not just him, it was still a ridiculous amount of money. He couldn't spend it all if he tried. And he wasn't inclined to. At least he never had to worry about not being able to afford groceries. Unless it was all Kobe steak and lobster and caviar.

Warwick cleared his throat, getting the stunned Saviour's attention. "Mr. Potter, have you made any business deals or investments that I should be aware of? If not, we can move on to those currently left standing."

Harry tried to think, but only one came to mind. "I gave Fred and George Weasley 1000 Galleons a little over a year ago. They currently own and run Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes here on Diagon Alley. They call me their primary investor, and I'm not sure if they're joking."

Warwick's eyes gleamed with predatory delight. "If you provided the seed money necessary to found this business, then you should own a controlling percentage of any and all voting stock, and therefore profits. I shall send an envoy to verify this with the Messers Weasley. Would you prefer to be declared chief executive officer or to take a silent role? Your grandfather preferred to be the power behind the throne, but it's your decision."

Harry balked at the idea of OWNING W3. That was the twins' dream. "Um, silent. And I don't want too much of the, er, stock. I just gave the gold, they're the ones who invented all the products and were mad enough to make it work."

Warwick nodded. "Very well. A silent investor it is, and your share shall be set at 51%. If you never exercise it, the company can run as it will, but when you do you can settle any dispute and decide without opposition."

"Okay," Harry agreed, not really sure if he was okay with that. But Warwick probably knew better.

"Good. If that's all, we can move on to your portfolio. Many of your family's assets and deals were liquidated during the first reign of the individual known as Voldemort. This increased the gold on hand substantially, but now there is now no incoming profit of any kind. If you want to leave the vault to sit, you may do so, though I strongly advise otherwise. Gold left stagnant is a tragedy."

"Right," Harry muttered. Seriously, Warwick wanted him to make even MORE money? What was with goblins and gold? But you can never have too much of a good thing, he supposed. Besides, if investing meant helping people like Fred and George, maybe there was something to it. "What would you recommend?"

"You currently have a great many offers from many clothing and retail outlets, requesting the use of your image as 'The Boy Who Lived' and the 'Saviour'. They would require nothing more than you posing for photographs, and the royalties and projected sales are quite promising."

"No." Harry didn't even have to think about it. He hated being famous, he wasn't going to make money off people buying into it.

Warwick hid a frown. "Very well. You also have a standing invitation from Flume Chocolatiers to have a Chocolate Frog card made for you. You would make a Galleon for every frog with your card sold. As one of the 'Rare' grade cards, it would be a small run of 10,000 a year, but it would add up over time."

"Also no." Harry sighed. "No to anything that involves my 'image' or whatever. No public appearances, no blurbs, no autographed merchandise. None of it. That goes for the future too. I refuse to make gold by being a 'celebrity'."

Warwick regarded him critically before finally nodding. "Very well. In that case, there's the standard Wizarding Stock Exchange route. Also, if you so choose, you could purchase stock in the muggle world via an intermediary, given your current age."

Harry just wanted to get out of there and try to absorb the truth of his dizzying wealth. He didn't feel like he had it in him to really use it, let alone invest it. "Can you do that for me? I'm no good with numbers, and the thing with the Weasley's was just because I knew them. I don't think I'm really a financial kind of guy."

Warwick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. One of THOSE kind of clients. "That is possible. I can add it to my general duties of looking after the vault. How much of your gold would you like to leave to my disposal, and what commission rate is acceptable to you?"

Harry thought about it. "Um… how about you have 20% of the Family vault, and you keep half of whatever you earn with it?"

Harry was treated to the sight of a gobsmacked goblin. It was quite disconcerting. Warwick quickly recovered himself, but he was eying him with something like suspicion. "That is… quite generous. Are you sure you're comfortable with me having access to so much of your money?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. Was this a Wizard/creature thing? Was Warwick so used to prejudice that a good deal was automatically suspect? "Look, I know my strengths. Finance isn't one of them. If I handled this myself, I'd probably blow it all or just leave it to collect dust. You, on the other hand, are clearly both trained and talented. You'd make much better use of it than I ever could. As for the amount, apparently I can afford to lose that much, not that I think you would. And if you make money making me money, well, that's encouragement for you to try extra hard, isn't it?"

Slowly, Warwick's mouth spread in a smile. A smile that made Harry uncomfortably aware of a goblin's capability to bite out throats. "I think, Mr. Potter, that I will enjoy working with you."

Harry grinned faintly. "Good to hear it. So, is there anything else?"

* * *

 **Right, I'll just cut it off there. This is really more of a side-project, so holding myself to the 10k minimum is just too much effort for a plot bunny that won't leave me alone, as opposed to my true passion. Still, hope this proved entertaining for some. Au Revoir.**


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